Rated M
by Mrs.VanchaMarch
Summary: Sherlock and John realise their feelings for each other. Things seem very nice and domestic until Moriarty gets involved. Now that Sherlock is back, is John able to fix him?
1. Can I Test Something?

**This is mostly based on a Sherlock roleplay I am involved in. It is on Hiatus until August, so I decided to channel it into a fiction. There's a lot of difference, though. My memory from when I first started the RP is a bit hazy. Rated T for later chapters; may change to M.**

**Warnings: Contains slash. **

**Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to the BBC. I only own this plot.**

It was a relatively normal day when their relationship elevated to another level. What had started out as partnership turned swiftly into friendship. 'Best friends' is what people would refer to them as. _"What's that? Sherlock Holmes has a friend? You must be mistaken."_ That was what most people said when they heard that Doctor John Watson had managed to befriend the sociopathic detective after a mere week of living together.

But many people didn't know the other side of Sherlock; the good side; the humble, sensitive, emotional side. Most people just assumed the man was a shallow and cold human being, incapable of showing any kind of remorse for the people he would both knowingly and unknowingly upset. Then again, John Watson wasn't most people.

Of course, there were other exceptions - Mycroft Holmes, for example. Sure, he and Sherlock may not have had the most understanding relationship growing up, but they were brothers. Nobody could change that. Mycroft would always be protective of his younger brother and Sherlock may have bouts of resentment for that fact, but despite this there would always be a friendly, unbreakable family bond between them.

Another person was Lestrade. Of all of the people in Scotland Yard, Gregory Lestrade was the only one who appreciated Sherlock's genius. He also knew there was another, greater man beneath the stoic, cold consulting detective who solved his cases. There would be little hints; the flash of a glare when someone made reference to his past life and troubles, the little upward quirk of his lips when John fired off clues, and the shimmer in his eyes when he saved a life.

It was also Lestrade who suggested just how blissfully domestic John and Sherlock's life was in Baker Street. Of course, neither man really took notice of this. Not until one winter evening in their small flat.

John had noticed something off about Sherlock. He was too quiet, not his usual self. There was no bumbling about the flat while rambling off a million solutions to a problem - nor was there any experiments going on; not in the past week or so, John noted. If he was honest, the doctor would say he was split about his decision on whether or not he liked it. Peace was one thing, something one hardly came across around Sherlock Holmes. There was also the lack of body parts in inappropriate places and that was a very good thing. Then again, John didn't like the too quiet Sherlock. It was like eating toast without jam; there was just something _missing. _

John missed the inquisitive silver-blue eyes and the velvety baritone of his voice as he spoke about a new case. He didn't like the fact that without these, he began to question himself about his own feelings – Why did he miss those things? John Watson liked women. He liked breasts and curves and perfume. He liked thick dark curls and high chiselled cheekbones… He liked… Sherlock.

It all dawned on him as he sat on his armchair – the one with the union jack cushion – and looked upon the familiar sight of his flatmate sprawled out on the sofa with three nicotine patches stuck to the underside of his arm. John couldn't help but remember the last time Sarah came to visit (and by the last time, it literally means the _last _time.) She had asked him many times about his relationship with Sherlock. Then there was the morning they all sat around the cluttered kitchen table.

"Are you gay?" Sarah looked between both men. Sherlock had kept his neutral expression, blinking just once over at John before steepling his fingers beneath his chin. John, however, had ended up choking on his tea. It took the man a good minute before he could look at Sarah. Of course he had denied it (defensively; making reference to how he had dated Sarah), but there was a little niggling in his chest that screamed "half wrong there, Watson."

Sherlock had instead just excused himself from the table to retreat to his room. Sarah had left then, giving John a goodbye kiss on the cheek and patting his arm. She knew a lot more than people gave her credit for. When she left, that whole fiasco was forgotten about. Until a week later that is; on the very same night their relationship took the first step towards a new light.

"John?" Came the very voice of the consulting detective. "You're quiet. What's wrong?" Sherlock looked up from where he lay on the sofa towards John. The doctor glanced towards his flatmate once, thinking how he could say the same thing.

"Nothing, Sherlock, just thinking… We need to go shopping tomorrow." John stood and made his way to the kitchen. "Tea?"

"Please." Sherlock sat up straight and watched John as he pondered about the kitchen, fetching two mugs down.

"You want Darjeerling, yeah?" John didn't hear Sherlock get up and pad over to the kitchen. Not until he was by the door.

"Yes, John." The doctor jumped and almost dropped the box of Darjeerling tea. He didn't make out that he got a fright though, just nodded and prepared two mugs of tea. Turning around, he handed the detective his cup. For a split second, their fingers brushed together. Something in the back of their minds screamed at them to stay, but before it could last the both of them had turned away – John to the sink and Sherlock to the door frame.

For a while there was silence, with John washing up quietly and Sherlock finally moving to use John's laptop. For the evening, John and Sherlock had resigned to watching Doctor Who re-runs. When John could stand the confusing television show no longer, he stood up and stretched.

"I'm off." He said, picking up their dinner plates and placing them in the sink. Sherlock had lay down on the sofa full length, legs sticking out over one end and his head resting on the other.

"I might use your laptop before I go to bed. You don't mind do you?" That made John pause for a second. Sherlock was asking permission?

"No not at all. Go ahead…" John sounded just a bit surprised. Shrugging, he moved in the direction of the stairs. Stopping just as he reached the door, the doctor turned around.

"Night, Sherlock." At this the detective tilted his head back to look at his flatmate.

"Goodnight, John." He said this with a warm, genuine smile and John couldn't help smiling back. The tingly feeling that rose in his stomach at that point hadn't faded until he was in his bed and fast asleep.

The next morning when John descended the stairs, he noticed a familiar blue dressing gown clad man lying asleep on the sofa. He tutted, muttering about back problems, before pulling a tartan afghan over the sleeping detective. Sherlock didn't stir. John stood there a few more seconds, taking in just how peaceful his flatmate looked. Sighing, he turned away and padded over to the kitchen to make some tea.

"John?" Sherlock turned onto his back and looked over to the kitchen, where John was readily making his own cup of tea. Stopping mid-stir, John turned to his flatmate, who had risen from the sofa and was now leaning against the doorframe.

"Morning, Sherlock. You hardly slept that well on the sofa?" John got down another cup and set it down on the counter. Sherlock's curls were mussed, sticking out just a little bit on one side and as smooth as ever on the other. He kept his gaze on John for a moment, thinking things over in his head.

"I was fine. John, erm… Can I test something?"

"Yeah, just don't blow anything up."

"No, John, I mean on you." Sherlock's voice had gone softer, almost meeker. The detective wet his lips nervously and took a step forward so he was fully in the kitchen.

"Oh… Okay?" John looked up as his flatmate came closer. By the time he pushed away his own cup of tea and turned back around to face Sherlock, the man was less than a foot away from him.

"John…" Sherlock reached out his hands. John swallowed silently when he felt two hands on either side of his face, thumbs resting on his jaw. Sherlock leaned forward tentatively until his lips were brushing against John's.

It took a while for John to react, but when he did, he felt himself pushing his own lips against Sherlock's. The kiss got quite clumsy then; Sherlock not having enough experience and John not expecting this. Though it was clumsy, neither man disliked it. Sherlock was the first to pull back and let his hands fall to John's shoulders, before sliding off entirely. He glanced down to John's hands which were on Sherlock's hips – John couldn't even remember putting them there – and back up to the shorter man's eyes.

"…Sherlock-" John removed his hands and they both separated.

"John, when Sarah asked you if you were gay… Why did you get so defensive?"

"I- I just…" John willed his mind to search for a rational thought. What in the world _could _he say without looking stupid –_Because I like you, you crazy, sociopathic detective- _

"How long?" Sherlock was looking straight at John now, those silver-blue eyes burning right through the doctor.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"How long have you liked me?" Well of course Sherlock would know John liked him.

"…A while. Sherlock, please don't tell me what you just did was only to discover the truth?" John's cheeks displayed light colouring now and he turned to stir his tea again. Sherlock slid behind him and carefully set his arms awkwardly around the doctor's waist. John froze and let out a sigh.

"Do you really think I'd kiss you if that were the case?"

"No. I suppose not." John couldn't help but smile, turning around and looking at his flatmate. "And I'm not gay. I'm bisexual."

"Right," Sherlock smiled back and turned away to his experiment set. "We need to go shopping don't we?" John could only shake his head but his goofy grin still intact.

"Yep. We're fresh out of shampoo and milk."

**Like it? Loath it? Let me know. There will be more chapters. Yes, Sherlock and John will seem a bit OOC. **

**Also, the title is reference to a later chapter. Not the actual rating.**


	2. Real First Date

**This chapter may seem a bit slow, but I need to build up their relationship before the action can start. I promise this fic will get better as the chapters progress, please bear with me.**

**Warnings: Contains slash.**

**Disclaimer: ****Sherlock belongs to the BBC. I only own this plot.**

Sherlock was in the bathroom, checking his hair. He was about to put some more product in it but considered that to be a bit _too_ gay. Instead, he fixed his collar and smoothed down the front of his shirt.

"Sherlock? Are you ready?" John called from downstairs. He was at the front door, coat in hand, waiting for his, well… What did he call Sherlock now? Boyfriend? It was still the same day they had first kissed. John got called into the clinic though, so the shopping would have to wait until the next day.

"I don't see why you're making such a fuss over this. It's not like Angelo will think it's our first date." The word 'date' sounded rather awkward coming from the detective's mouth as he descended the stairs to join John. He took his long, black jacket from the hook and slipped it over his shoulders, scarf swiftly following.

"Because," John said, shrugging on his own, shorter jacket. "It actually is a date this time." Giving Sherlock a little smile, he opened the door and waited for the taller man to step out. Sherlock hailed a cab and John locked the door.

Settling into the cab, John sat back in his seat and gave the cabbie the name of where they were going. They hadn't been to Angelo's since before the pool incident. Both men were responsible for the other being alive. Since then Moriarty had disappeared.

"John?" Sherlock glanced sideward's at John, eyes inquisitive; almost knowing.

"Mm?"

"What's wrong?" The detective carefully reached his hand across the seat. For someone not used to this sort of thing, Sherlock had seen enough films. He knew what he was doing. Sort of.

"It's nothing." John saw the hand and instinctively put his own just on top of it. "I'm just glad to have you." Sherlock raised an eyebrow at that, but said nothing. Instead, he carefully fit his hand into John's.

Five minutes later the cab pulled up outside Angelo's and they both got out. Their hands weren't interlocked anymore - it was a bit early for full public displays of affection. Angelo greeted them with his usual smirk and fetched a candle. Instead of sitting at their usual table by the window, John led Sherlock to one of the booths at the back for some privacy.

Once settled and with menu's in hand, they removed their jackets. John couldn't help but give an approving glance over at Sherlock's shirt. In fact, it was John's favourite shirt of Sherlock; the plum purple one that was tight fitting on the detective's slender body. Sherlock looked over and smiled smugly at John.

"You scrub up well." He pointed out, nodding at John's new grey shirt with little feint white patterns on it.

"Thanks. You too." John picked up his menu and scanned it. "What are you ordering?" There was really only one thing John liked on the menu, seeing as most of the things were tomato based and John didn't like tomato unless it was 'spicy tomato soup'.

"I was thinking of the Mediterranean herb soup with the side of bread." As Sherlock said that, one of the waiters came over to take their order. In the end, John went with a creamy carbonara and side of salad. He also ordered a bottle of white wine. Sherlock just had a glass of water.

"You will have some wine, though? I don't want to have it all by myself."

"Maybe. I'll drink water first though." John shrugged and took one of the breadsticks from the table to nibble on it. Sherlock didn't like to drink a lot; it made him act a bit differently. Not in a bad way, though.

Their food arrived some time later. Sherlock looked over his soup and gave it a sniff.

"Eat." John said, pointing to the bowl of green soup with his fork. Rolling his eyes, the detective slowly spooned the liquid into his mouth. Giving an approving sound, more spoonfuls followed. John poured them both a glass of wine and pushed Sherlock's towards him.

"How's the soup?"

"It's fine. Tasty. What about your pasta?"

"Creamy, but very nice. It was the only one not tomato based." John took a sip of his wine, twirling the liquid around the glass. Sherlock did the same, except it was only a small sip. His tongue darted out to lick some of the wine from his mouth and Sherlock glanced at John as he did so. It was unintentional, really, but John couldn't stop the sudden colour that rose to his cheeks. Of course this didn't slip past Sherlock unnoticed and he took a few more drinks of the wine. Slipping his shoe off, Sherlock raised one sock clad foot and ran it slowly from the base of John's leg up to his knee and back down.

Biting his lip to stop from making an undignified noise, John simply put down his fork and looked up at Sherlock. The detective smirked and removed his foot, slipped it back into his shoe and returned it back underneath his chair.

"That was unexpected." John snorted. Slowly, he reached his hand towards the middle of the table. Sherlock reached over his own and fitted it in the doctor's to interlace their fingers.

"I was just seeing your reaction. John, you should know I'm not used to this sort of thing… At all."

"So we'll take it slow. I'm not willing to rush anything, Sherlock." John gave a re-assuring smile, squeezing Sherlock's hand and rubbing his thumb along the edge. Sherlock looked even more sculpted in candle-light, with the soft glow making his cheekbones stand out and his eyes burn brighter.

"Thank you." They ate in silence with their hands still connected across the table. When they were finished their main meal, John glanced down at the menu again.

"Do you want dessert?" He asked half hopefully to Sherlock. The other smiled and shook his head.

"No, but you go ahead." John grinned and scanned the menu. When he wasn't looking, Sherlock took in the doctor's details; the slightly-longer-than-military-standard hair, the dark blue of eyes that have seen much damage and the feint laugh lines around his mouth. The waiter came around and glanced at their hands. He just smiled at them and asked for John's order.

"I'll get a chocolate sundae please." John handed the menu back to the waiter.

"And for you, sir? Coffee? Tea?" The waiter asked Sherlock in his heavy Italian accent.

"I should probably get that wine out of my system." He handed his own menu up. "I'll take a coffee – black, two sugars." The waiter nodded and went on his way.

"Do you want to walk back? It's a nice night." John passed Sherlock his jacket and put on his own as they left Angelo's. Sherlock wrapped his scarf around his neck and secured it in place.

"Yes. The flat's only a ten minute walk away anyway." He looked down at the shorter male and bit his lip for a second. "Come on." They started to walk in the direction of Baker Street, side by side. John leaned in closer to Sherlock and their fingers brushed gently. Tentatively, they began to twine their fingers together.

"There's nobody around to see us." John said, noting the hesitant look on Sherlock's face.

"I know that, John." The taller man offered a smile and gave John's hand a gentle squeeze. The cool night seemed to get just a little bit warmer.

**Thank you to the people who story alerted this. I was honestly chuffed, even if it was only a handful. Next chapter coming soon. This was nice and fluffy towards the end, don't you think?**

**The smut will be coming shortly :P Please leave a review or story alert.**


	3. Blonde Bombshell Shampoo

**This one is longer and took me a while to get right. I'm pretty sure this is the order in which things happened during my roleplay. Anyway enjoy it. Thanks for the story alerts and the review I got.**

**Warnings: Contains slash.**

**Disclaimer: ****Sherlock belongs to the BBC. I only own this plot.**

It was one week later when Sherlock and John took things further. They had been sharing a bed – John's bed – but that was as far as things had gone for them. There were the little things like a cuddle in the middle of the night or waking up and just relaxing in each other's presence as the sun shone in on them.

They even went to the park that morning; Sherlock's idea, though it was John's idea to feed the ducks. The detective could only be amused by John's fascination with one little duckling. He had even gone as far as to name it Fred. John had started to feel ill halfway through the walk and so they had to head home. They did so hand in hand as they got closer to the flat.

"I'm fine, Sherlock. I just don't think breakfast agreed with me that's all." Sherlock had still made sure John was comfortable. An interesting conversation soon followed.

"We should get a cat."

"A what, sorry?" Sherlock looked up from John's side to stare at him.

"A cat, Sherlock. You know, as a pet?" John tilted his head.

"Yes, I know what a cat is but why do you want one? Won't it shed?"

"I just like the idea of the pitter-patter of little feet. Cat's feet, I mean." John stretched the arm that was draped around Sherlock's shoulders. Sherlock snorted and ran a hand through his curls.

"I certainly hope you're not thinking about kids. I suppose we could stop by the shelter if you're that desperate."

"You're enough of a kid as it is." John joked. He knew Sherlock didn't take him seriously. "Thanks, though."

That was all that was said as they both fell asleep – Sherlock with his arms draped around John, resting his head against the ex army doctor's broad chest, and John with his arms holding onto Sherlock. They were still cuddled up on the sofa a while later when John yawned and gently moved Sherlock off him, who woke up at the same time.

"We need to go shopping this-evening. That shampoo doesn't suit my hair. Its tea tree scented." John stretched and padded over from the sofa to the kitchen to check the cupboards for necessities.

"Is something wrong with tea tree?" Sherlock stood up and followed his flatmate-turned-lover.

"Nope. It just suits you more." John turned around and caught Sherlock by the waist to give him a kiss. "I find shampoo for blonde hair suits me best." Sherlock just chuckled and nuzzled the top of John's soft, short hair. John started to walk Sherlock backwards towards the sofa, not stopping until both of them near toppled onto it.

They stayed like that entangled in a heated kiss, until John stopped and pulled Sherlock onto his lap. "Do you want to order in tonight?"

"I was thinking," Sherlock sighed, resting his head on John's shoulder, "That we could buy something from the deli in the shops instead. They have a new hot food section."

"Oh yeah. It's quite nice I was told. Maybe we could get some soup? There's spicy tomato soup."

"And spicy tomato is the only one you will eat, right?"

"Right." John smiled and pressed a kiss to Sherlock's thick curls, inhaling the familiar tea tree smell. There was another smell too, not one John could put a finger on, just a 'Sherlock' smell; warm, comforting and strangely similar to the experiment set. "Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?" Sherlock pulled back his head to look at his boyfriend with his bright, silver-blue eyes.

"I… Well-" John paused. He didn't know how to say this. And if he did, how would Sherlock react? "I've been thinking. I think my feelings have gone beyond, well…" Sherlock rolled his eyes at John and sat up straighter.

"I love you, you daft doctor." Smiling, Sherlock kissed John. It was soft, gentle and lingering.

"Well, that made things a lot clearer." John smiled back at Sherlock. "I love you too." He nuzzled their noses together.

"I think we need to go shopping now, John. There's no milk for the tea." Sherlock stood up and went to get his coat.

"And that would be a terrible catastrophe, wouldn't it?" John ran up to his - their – room to get some shoes and a jacket while Sherlock went outside to hail a cab. They travelled in companionable silence with their hands gently touching. As London entered the evening, the cab made its way to the shop.

* * *

><p>John plucked a basket from the stack at the door and took out a small list he'd made earlier. Sherlock followed him around for a while. He still wasn't quite used to doing the weekly shopping. Before John, Sherlock survived on only what was really necessary to keep him going for a few days a week. John and their relationship had both given the lanky detective his appetite back and he was eating more than usual. Except when they were on a case; it still 'slowed him down'.<p>

"Right, milk." John looked up to the shelf in front of him. "Of course the freshest would be on the very top. I'm too short."

"Allow me." Sherlock smirked and reached effortlessly up to take down two cartons and stick them in the basket. John gave a small thank you and they wound their way around the aisles. On a slightly emptier aisle, John braved himself and slipped his hand into Sherlock's. Instead of pulling away, the detective instead held back. As a couple gave them a strange look, Sherlock's protective side came through and he stood slightly behind John. To say he held a smug look was an understatement. Seeing his proud smile, the other couple swiftly moved on to leave John and Sherlock alone in the aisle.

"You don't mind?" John tilted his head back to look at his lover as they approached the shampoo aisle.

"Why should I? We're a couple now." Sherlock dared to kiss John's cheek before moving away to scan the rows of colourful bottles.

"Yeah… We are." John could feel himself turning pink, but was soon distracted by the blonde section. His eyes roamed the various women's shampoos. He spent a few minutes in serious thought between two bottles.

"John?" The doctor looked up to see Sherlock standing with his own bottle of shampoo, looking between the yellow bottles in front of his lover.

"I can't decide between _Sun-kissed glow_ and _Blonde Bombshell…_" John held up the two bottles which were almost identical to show Sherlock. The taller male snorted and patted John's shoulder.

"I'll leave you to debate that with yourself while I buy soup. But," Sherlock leaned down to whisper into John's ear, "I heard Blonde Bombshell smells good. See you in a few." John could only stand there and wait for the tingling that Sherlock's warm breath left on his ear to pass.

Meanwhile, Sherlock ordered their food by the deli. The woman at the deli was attractive and as John made his way with Blonde Bombshell shampoo in the basket, he couldn't help the feeling of jealousy rise in his stomach.

"Ah, John. This nice young woman has offered to give us half price." As John reached his boyfriend's side, Sherlock snaked an arm around his waist. The deli woman, whose nametag read 'Delilah' gave them both a look and nodded. She was obviously feeling 'defeated' but as long as she knew Sherlock was John's and vice versa, they were both safe. She handed them their to-go soups in a bag and tucked her red hair shyly behind her ears.

"Thank you. Come along John, the cat shelter doesn't stay open too late." Sherlock took John's hand once again and they made their way for the check-out.

* * *

><p>"Do you know the owner of this place, too?" John opened the door to the cat shelter and let Sherlock step inside first.<p>

"All this opening doors for me John, really." Sherlock smiled and shook his head. "No, I don't actually." As he said that, a stocky man with a kind face rounded the corner.

"Evenin' lads. What can I do fer ye?" The man asked with a thick London accent. As he stopped, cat hairs flew off his shirt and into the air.

"Well, we're looking to adopt a cat." John peered at the door ahead, where he could hear meows coming from.

"They're all in 'ere. Follow me an' I'll show ye both the kitten an' older cat section." The stocky man led the way to the same door, pushing it open and allowing the couple to step through first. The room was brightly lit with rows of spacious cages lining the walls and middle section of the room. On the left were the kittens. The middle section was the slightly older cats and the right hand side were the fully grown cats.

Sherlock made his way calmly towards a few of the kennels on the left. Stooping by one with a white fluff ball of a kitten in it, he stuck out his finger. A pink nose gently poked its way through the spaces of the cage and nudged Sherlock's fingers.

"Oh my god. She's beautiful!" John knelt down beside Sherlock and looked in utter awe at the tiny white kitten. He reached out a finger to stroke it's head and the little thing purred in response, even going as far as to lick the finger.

"She is. But there are other cats here too, John. Let's have a look around first, eh?" Sherlock stood up and waited for John. Reluctantly, the doctor joined him. He gave the kitten a little wave and it watched them as they walked away.

"Almost all o' these cats were abandon'd and found by people at the side of streets or in alleyways. Poor little mites." The man who owned the shelter led them to the middle row. Most of these cats were sleeping as John and Sherlock passed them by, stopping to look into one or two of the cages.

"What about this one?" Sherlock asked, pausing by a grey tabby cat's cage. The cat inside it looked like it was peeved with having to listen to the meow's of the other cats.

"Ah, Tobias. 'E was abused by his former owner and was 'ardly ever fed. We found it after the neighbour complained but since it was rescued it's been so angry. Nobody seems to wan' it because of its temper." Sherlock bent down to peer into the cage. The tomcat inside just stared back at it.

"He just feels like nobody cares." Cautiously, Sherlock reached a hand forward. The cat pulled back for half a second, but sensing no danger, slowly stuck its head out to sniff at Sherlock's fingers.

"We can get that one if you want to, Sherlock." John looked in at the cat, who perked its ears up at him. Sherlock smiled and looked over at his lover.

"I'd like that. But I don't think you want to leave without that little white kitten, do you?"

"We can get two?" John's eyes lit up and the owner just raised his eyebrows.

"If you like. I'm sure we can manage just fine. Go on, get the other cat. I'll try to coax Tobias out." Sherlock opened the cage door and entered his hand carefully to set it down on the floor of the cage. John nodded and went back to the white kitten. As the thing saw John approaching, it stood up and waited hopefully by the cage door.

"Yes, I am coming for you." John opened the cage and let the tiny kitten crawl into his hands. "Bitsy. I'll call you Bitsy." The little bundle of fur nuzzled into John's neck and the doctor made his way back to Sherlock. By now, Tobias the tomcat was pushing his head into the detective's hand. For a cat with a temper, it seemed to like Sherlock. Finally it trusted Sherlock enough to let him take him out.

"I can give you Tobias for free, seeing as you're the first people who wanted him." The stocky man got down to cat carriers – a small one and a big one – and let the men settle each of their cats in.

"You go back to the flat with the cats. I'd say a cab would be better to carry both them and the shopping." Sherlock handed Tobias's carrier to John.

"Wait, where are you going?" John let Sherlock hail him a cab outside and load the cats plus the shopping inside.

"They do need food, John. And beds." He shut the boot of the cab and leaned in to kiss John. "I won't be long, okay?"

"Okay. Maybe you should pick up some toys too. I love you." John touched Sherlock's cheek once and settled himself in the back of the cab. As the cab pulled away, he made sure Tobias and Bitsy were settled in alright. Tobias was a bit more nervous of John so he stayed curled into his carrier. Bitsy, however, was purring happily and pushing her nose out constantly to lick John's hand.

Finally putting away the shopping, John made time for the cats. He had already opened both of their carriers, but Bitsy was the only one who escaped it. She was playing in one of the shopping bags when John picked her up and settled the ball of fur on the sofa.

"John? I'm back. Could you get the door?" Sherlock called from the hallway downstairs. John opened the door for Sherlock, who was armed with three big bags.

"I thought you were getting food, toys and a bed?"

"I did. Two beds, a lot of food and a lot of toys. There is more than one cat, John." Rolling his eyes but without saying 'obviously', John helped Sherlock unload the bags. One of the beds was red velvet, embroidered with a white paw. The other was identical in design, except it was black. Bitsy immediately pounced to the black one.

"I had intended the black to be for Tobias… But she looks too cute in it. Speaking of Tobias, where is he?"

"Still in his carrier. I think he was waiting for you." Sherlock bent down and peered inside. As soon as Tobias saw him, he got up and was coaxed out. John went to take out the food and four new bowls. He filled two with cat food and two with water. Setting them down on the kitchen floor, he waited as the two cats sniffed their way over.

"Shall I heat up our soup and put on the telly?" John stuck the two cups into the microwave and set it for two minutes when Sherlock nodded. Said man opened a DVD collection of Doctor Who and got it set up. When John came back with the two soups and the two cats nosed about the flat, Sherlock pulled the table over to the sofa. John sat down first and waited for Sherlock to clamber on before he ate. Sherlock was sitting beside John with his legs draped over John's lap. John used them as a resting spot for his cup of soup and they settled down.

"Any texts from Lestrade lately?"

"Not a word, strangely." Sherlock checked his phone out of instinct and, seeing no updates, tossed it aside. When they both finished with their soup and the cups were out of their way, the two went back to watching Doctor Who. But Sherlock was fidgety and couldn't sit still. Just as John was about to ask what was wrong, Sherlock shifted his position suddenly so he was straddling the older man's lap.

"W-well that was unexpected." John chuckled and settled his hands on his flatmate-turned-lover's bony hips. Sherlock's arms snaked to the back of John's neck and pulled him forward for a kiss. It was sloppy and oddly needy.

"Whoa, was there something in your soup?" John joked, smiling up at Sherlock.

"John." Sherlock leaned down to nip at the shell of John's ear, causing John to darken in colour and bite his lip. Pulling back a moment later, John's eyes met Sherlock. There was something new in them, a sort of wanton look.

"…I love you, John." Sherlock leaned forward, body resting against his lover's.

"I love you, too. What's all this about?"

"I Mmhfhm moo mmf." Sherlock mumbled incoherently into John's neck.

"What?" John pushed Sherlock back and caressed his cheek. "I can't hear you when you're mumbling into me, love."

"I said I want… I want to do it." Patches of colour stained Sherlock's cheeks and he had to look away from John to hide his embarrassment.

"Only if you're sure, Sherlock. Like I said, I'll go as slow as you want." Sherlock had to admire John's patience with him and he just smiled, giving him another kiss.

"I'm ready. But… It will be my first time."

**Next chapter is smut; yay! My memory is so hazy but this is the jist of it. And yes – Virgin!Submissive!Sherlock and Dominant!John.**

**Please leave a review, they really make me happy.**


	4. Appease My Little Problem

**Alright, this is the smut chapter. It's also the lead up to the next few chapters. Thanks for the story alerts and favourites, I really do appreciate it! Rating has changed to M, just to be on the safe side. Enjoy!**

**Warning: Contains slash.**

**Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to the BBC. I only own this plot.**

"Your first time? You mean you've never…" John held Sherlock's hips and gave his lover a hesitant look.

"You're my first. First proper partner too. Look, John I trust you and love you. I just need to be able to _show_ you." Sherlock squirmed a bit on John's lap, letting his hands slide down the front of the man's shirt. John caught those long, slender hands with his own and pressed a small kiss into the palm.

"Well, we should move to the bedroom in that case. I don't think the cats really want to see this." John nodded towards the velvet cat beds, where Bitsy and Tobias were watching them. Sherlock calmed down with a little smile and slid off John, offering his hand. John took it and in a matter of minutes, they were upstairs in John's bedroom with their hands still clasped together. Sherlock's own bedroom had been completely vacant the past week. Then again, John's bedroom should just be called 'their' bedroom and Sherlock's the 'spare' bedroom. For some reason, though, they just referred to it as Sherlock's old room.

John was the first of the two to make his move. His hands moved from Sherlock's hands to his neck. Slowly, they started to undo the first button. He paused then, looking up at his lover for some sort of approval. Sherlock nodded swiftly and undid his belt, while John continued to open the buttons one by one.

Stepping back, John started to open his own shirt buttons before he was stopped by Sherlock.

"Let me… I want to." And so John let Sherlock take over. As his shirt was slipped off and let fall to the ground, he felt a cool hand on his left shoulder – the one with the scar. Sherlock's fingers traced the smooth scar delicately, as if it were something fragile. Eventually Sherlock kissed it, his plump lips brushing carefully over it. Pulling back, he let his own shirt fall to the ground, picked it up again and folded both of the shirts neatly over the back of a chair.

"Come here, Sherlock." John spoke softly as he sat on the edge of his bed, removing his trousers at the same time Sherlock did. Both men were now in their underwear. John couldn't help look at Sherlock's pale, slightly toned but lean frame. It looked as if it had been sculpted. Sherlock seemed to be embarrassed of his body, not meeting John's eyes as he slipped onto his lap again.

"Are you alright?" John slid his hands down Sherlock's back, emitting a sigh and a shudder from the taller male.

"I-I'm fine John, really." Sherlock arched his back into his lover. John secured his hands at the base of Sherlock's back before swiftly switching their positions so that he was pinning Sherlock onto the bed. He leaned down and gave Sherlock a slow kiss, moving the kisses down to his jawline. Sherlock gasped when the sensitive skin just under his jawline was sucked on gently. His head tipped back, leaving the rest of his neck exposed and vulnerable to those lips. John took the hint and his kisses trailed slowly to the side of Sherlock's neck, sucking deeply and even nibbling just a tiny bit, hard enough to leave a love bite but gentle enough that he didn't break the skin. Eventually his tongue travelled to Sherlock's collarbone.

All the while, Sherlock was breathing deeply underneath him, mouth gaping slightly. By now there was a slight pitching in his boxers.

"John, I think I need you to a-appease my little problem." How the detective managed such thorough sentences in his current state was a mystery. John just smirked and moved his hand down to palm the area, causing Sherlock to gasp again and place his hands upon the doctor's strong arms.

In one swift movement, John let his hand slip under the waistband of Sherlock's boxers, teasing the delicate skin there before he pulled them down. It released Sherlock's length and John took a few seconds to appreciate it. Sherlock's cheeks were a deep pink in colour and he had to bite his lip to keep his breathing steady. John could feel his own erection grow in his boxers and they became awfully tight as his hand curled around Sherlock.

It didn't take more than a few hard strokes to turn Sherlock into a trembling, lightly moaning fraction of his usual self. John moved his hand down to his lover's entrance, one finger prodding at the taut ring of muscle very gently.

"I'm going to prepare you now-"

"Wait, John. In the top drawer beside us…" Sherlock gestured with a fling of his arm to the bedside locker, almost embarrassed. John stopped just long enough to open the drawer, discovering a bottle of lube.

"I figured we m-might be needing it soon. Just to make things smoother?"

"Of course." John smiled and gave Sherlock a re-assuring kiss. Opening the lube with a loud, plastic click, John squeezed a generous amount onto his fingers. Snapping the bottle shut, he put it back on the locker and then returned swiftly to where he left off; prodding the entrance with his middle finger. "Take a breath, love." John said as he pushed forward. The tight heat that encased his finger next told John to be thankful of that lube.

Sherlock took a sharp breath and his eyes squeezed shut, arching his back and allowing the finger to settle inside him. John looked up, afraid for a moment that he had hurt his lover.

"The first time is always the worst, Sherlock. It will get better I promise you." John leaned down to nip on the shell of Sherlock's ear and slipped another finger slowly in. When that one was inside, he made a scissoring motion with his fingers to 'stretch' him out. A low moan rumbled out from the detective along with another, higher, almost squeak-like noise as John's fingertips grazed off his sweet spot. John removed his fingers at that point and lowered Sherlock's body down flat. Taking off his own, now painfully tight boxers, he released his length.

"Are you ready, love?" He asked Sherlock. Taking the lube again, John prepared himself. Sherlock could only nod, opening his eyes a fraction to look up at the beautiful, tanned and muscular body of his John, his ex-army doctor. John guided Sherlock along and told him to wrap his legs around his waist. As he lined himself up, Sherlock's feet found the base of John's back and his hands held onto John's broad shoulders.

"Alright." John whispered, pushing forward. As he did so, Sherlock's head tipped back again and he took a breath. John pushed further into the lanky detective, keeping him steady by holding him just below his hips. John himself had to close his eyes once when a low groan escaped him. His slow and gentle thrusts gradually built up in speed.

The detective's grip on John's shoulders tightened, nails almost digging into the tanned skin. Even in his state of pleasure, he was careful not to dig his nails into the scar. He wasn't sure how it felt to touch, but he wasn't chancing hurting John.

One of those thrusts nudged at Sherlock's prostate, making the detective near shriek out, bucking his hips upwards and grabbing onto John tighter. They were in a tight embrace, Sherlock purring and moaning in euphoria and John grunting with each sharp thrust of his hips. Sometime in all that heat, their positions changed once more and John was now lying on his back with Sherlock straddling his waist.

The detective's hands were splayed across John's chest to hold him up and he leaned forward, rolling his hips and panting with each move.

"Sher-Sher-"That was all John could manage before letting out a loud groan and spilling himself inside his lover. Sherlock shuddered once, pausing and moaning out John's name as he himself came. He may have made John's chest quite sticky but neither of them cared.

Sherlock's eyes were closed, and the arm that had been holding him up finally gave out. He collapsed onto John's broad chest, his cheek pressed against John's scar and his hand still pinned between them. Exhaling shakily, he refused to open his eyes or look up at John. He was either embarrassed about how sensitive he had been, or he was regretting what had happened.

For a while they lay there, catching their breath and not saying a word. John's hand found their way to Sherlock's hair, carding through the dark, slightly damp curls.

"…John…" Sherlock breathed and finally raised his head but his eyes still couldn't meet John. It had been one of the best feelings in the world but he still found it odd. One week ago and he never would have thought this could have happened; now look at them. John, however, had just acted out his fantasies, the very thing he had been thinking about since his feelings first emerged.

"Shh… Sleep now, love." John whispered, kissing the top of Sherlock's hair and laying him down beside him. He reached over and pulled the covers over their bodies. "I love you."

"I love you too, John." The detective mumbled as sleep finally took over. John's arms found their way around his lanky body and held him close, inhaling once more the smell of tea tree and _Sherlock._

Sherlock rolled onto his other side at some point, pulling John with him so they were spooned together. He managed to tuck his long body into a surprisingly small area of the bed, taking up as little space as possible. He did tend to hog the blankets, though, pulling them all forward and bundling them up against his chest.

* * *

><p>The next morning John woke up first. A stream of sunlight shone through the curtains and illuminated the two bodies. Sherlock too woke up when John stirred, being the light sleeper he is. For a second he said nothing and his memories of the previous night came flooding back. Though he would never admit it, he blushed.<p>

"Goodmorning." John yawned, leaning over to press a small kiss on Sherlock's temple. Sherlock moved around and caught John with his lips, kissing him deeply. As he turned, a dull throb came from his bottom and he squirmed pulling back.

"Morning."

"Sore?" John smiled and slipped out of the bed. He opened the curtains and squinted as the sun filled the whole room.

"Just a bit." Sherlock lied. He sat upright with a wince. "But you may have to help me into a bath."

"I suggest a cold one. It does help." John offered his hand and Sherlock took it gently to be hauled onto his feet.

One cool bath later found John downstairs, making tea and toast. He still hadn't dressed fully so he was standing in a pair of old pyjama bottoms. Tobias and Bitsy were playing with toy mice and jingle balls, meowing softly when John threw them both a bit of crust. The smell of warm toast wafted upstairs and brought Sherlock down in a dark blue shirt and black trousers. The love bite John had marked his skin with last night was peeking over his collar.

"You're going to eat." John said, plating up a slice of toast and putting it in front of Sherlock. He would have protested, but the detective instead just shrugged and took a small bite; John was only looking out for his health.

"I got a text from Lestrade thismorning." Sherlock took out his phone and showed it to John.

/_Package left for you at Scotland Yard. It looks suspicious – GL/ _John looked at the text and frowned.

"Odd. Usually stuff is sent here." John sat down with his own toast and spread a generous amount of jam onto the bread.

"We'll go there after breakfast and see what's happening. I'm sure they've kept it up for me." Though Sherlock was acting calm, something felt wrong in John's gut. For some reason, his instincts were screaming 'danger!' but there wasn't much he could do about it. How much more dangerous could things get? He and Sherlock had been through enough things already.

"Right. I'll go get dressed then." John smiled at his lover, but the feeling didn't subside.

**The next chapter is where the action begins. Let me know what you think? Writing that smut made me blush! Gah! But there will be more in future chapters.**


	5. Moriarty's Warning

**Changed the rating back to T. This is the chapter where everything begins. It may seem confusing but fear not – it will all be clear soon. **

**Warnings: Contains slash. **

**Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to the BBC. I only own this plot.**

* * *

><p>Upstairs, John got dressed too quickly. His clothes from the previous day were dumped into the washing hamper and that was filling up fast; another thing to add to the to-do list. Sighing, he felt around his wardrobe drawers and pulled out the first thing his hand came into contact with. It was just a plain white t-shirt and a checkered shirt. He pulled on a pair of dark blue jeans and shoes and headed back downstairs where Sherlock was already donning his coat and scarf.<p>

"Did you feed the cats?" John asked, grabbing his keys. Bitsy seemed to be quite content as she pounced after Tobias's tail.

"Yes, John. Tobias seems to be warming up to Bitsy." As he said that, the tomcat swatted at Bitsy's nose with one tabby paw. John smiled over at the two cats briefly and ushered his lover out the door.

Sherlock hailed them both a cab and gave the cabbie a quick "Scotland Yard" as he settled back into his seat. The possibilities flew a mile a minute around John's brain – was it a present from one of Sherlock's previous clients who didn't know where he lived? Was it from an admirer, a different country, a… a threatening letter? He shook his head of that thought and tried to clear his mind as they reached Scotland Yard. It had started to rain heavily during the ride and now John was cursing himself for not bringing a thicker jacket.

Sherlock left John to pay the cabby, sweeping out into the rain as soon as the car had come to a

full stop. He barely twitched his coat free of the cab's door before it slammed shut behind him. He disappeared into the building in the matter of a moment, stripping off his scarf as soon as he came through the doors. "Lestrade! Where's this package you texted me about?"

John threw the cabbie a fiver and stepped out after Sherlock and into the station. He noticed Sherlock taking off his scarf and burned red, but he quickly shook that off and looked at Lestrade. His arms folded across his chest and he looked around for any sort of suspicious looking package.

There was a small box sitting on the corner of Lestrade's desk, and the detective nodded to it.

"That. Showed up first thing this morning with the rest of the mail." Sherlock glanced at Lestrade before picking the box up and turning it this way and that. Something inside rolled across the bottom as the box was rotated, and Sherlock set it down quite quickly.

"You checked it for any booby traps already, I assume?" He was answered with a short nod from the DI. John peered down at the box with a squint. The feeling of something being out of place had still not left him and now that he saw it right in front of him, his fears were heightened.

"The writing looks familiar." John noted, taking in the 'rounded' off handwritten name.

"Of course it does, John." Sherlock had borrowed a letter opener from Lestrade's desk and was working it under the taped-down label. The tape finally came free; Sherlock tossed the letter opener into the mess on the DI's desk, and pulled the flaps of the box back. A brief flash of puzzlement crossed his face when he noticed what was inside. After a moment, he muttered a single word: "Moriarty."

"Moriarty?" John's voice changed, growing dark. "I bloody knew it! What is it, Sherlock?" He glanced around, expecting the psycho to jump out at any point. He felt sick but took a breath and stepped up beside Sherlock, a look of confusion crossing his features at that point. The box contained three things: A small red lighter emblazoned with a golden 'M' in fanciful script, a miniature tape recorder, and a photo of John and Sherlock at their last crime scene. At least, Sherlock had to assume it was John; where his head would have been was a charred hole in the photograph.

"I'd have you dust for prints, Lestrade, but he's smarter than that."

"...There would be no need for that." John cut in before Lestrade could comment.

"It's obviously Moriarty. Who else would send something so strange and with an 'M' on it? And we already know he dislikes me." His eyes narrowed a bit and he swallowed. "Sherlock, what does this mean?"

Lestrade remained silent, looking between the suspicious items and the two men. He looked tired and the situation of Moriarty didn't seem to be helping. Also, the DI could swear there was something on Sherlock's neck…

"He said he'd burn the heart out of me if I didn't stop what I was doing." Sherlock said softly. His eyes flicked to John, however briefly, before returning to the contents of the box.

"It seems that he means to make good on his promise."

John banged his fist on the table and cursed. He stood up straight then, took a second to compose himself and looked to Sherlock. "Sorry." he apologised and looked back at the strange package.

"He won't burn the heart out of anybody. Not while I'm around." The doctor shook his head.

"I don't intend to stop, John. I refuse to let him think he's won... Yes, Lestrade, it's a love bite! Now would you PLEASE stop staring at my neck?" Sherlock's cheeks flushed slightly pink as he said it, but Lestrade's attention was sufficiently distracted from the red mark peeking out of the collar of his shirt.

"Mycroft already knows of this, I'm sure. He'll have someone watching you constantly, John, to make sure you aren't snatched off the street going to the shops for milk or something."

Sherlock's outburst made John blush a little and he coughed, looking away briefly. "Remind me to be nicer to your brother." John said dryly after a moment and rubbed his palms together. "And what about you? That psycho may be obsessed with you but that doesn't mean he wouldn't try anything shady." The look he gave Sherlock screamed 'I wouldn't live with myself if he did'.

Lestrade walked over to the two of them, avoiding Sherlock's eye (and neck) and cleared his throat. "So, what's the plan?"

"Carry on as though nothing's changed." Sherlock plucked the lighter out of the box and pocketed it. "John and I are going to Bart's for the afternoon. As the saying goes, there's more than one way to skin a cat, and wouldn't it be wonderfully ironic if we tracked Moriarty down through the lighter he gave us? Come along, John." Sherlock collected his scarf and swept out with his usual drama.

"We'll keep you updated." John nodded to Lestrade and followed Sherlock. In his mind, he cursed himself for not killing Moriarty at the pool. It might not have been possible, but he still should have tried. They reached St. Bart's labs eventually. "You think Moriarty left clues in there?"

"No, but it may be possible to track him down through the type of lighter. It's clearly expensive. He's not out buying those cheap plastic disposables to send death threats." Sherlock hung his coat and scarf on a peg along with John's and actually smiled at Molly. The lab tech seemed a little stunned at the smile. "Hello, Molly. Lovely day, don't you think?"

John tried his best not to roll his eyes. He would give Molly the wrong message if he wasn't careful. Making his way over to the table, he picked up the lighter gingerly and tilted it upside-down. "Well, it doesn't say where it's made. Not on the bottom anyway. What type of metal is the clicker?" He put it back down and looked at Sherlock.

"An expensive lighter wouldn't be made out of cheap metal."

Sherlock had sent Molly off for coffee by the time he came over to John's table.

"Oh, it's not the lighter I'm interested in so much as the contents." Flipping back the cap of it, Sherlock gingerly pulled the guts out of the lighter and handed the shell back to John. "Look inside for a stamp of any sort. They wouldn't put it on the outside where it would mar the finish or wear off." There was a short pause, and puzzlement crossed Sherlock's face again. "Empty... Why would he send an empty lighter in the post?"

"To put us off? Maybe he used it all to burn me out of the picture." John's sighed and checked the inside for any significant logo or anything. He snorted then and had to do a double check. "Believe it or not, it's a DuPont! It's not in the usual DuPont shell, though." He made a thoughtful noise and handed the lighter back to Sherlock.

"He means for me to fill the lighter myself," The detective muttered, taking the shell back from John and stuffing the workings back into it.

"Something that I do is going to trigger a chain reaction that's going to lead to something happening to you - something to put you in hospital or… leave you dead." His silver eyes flicked up as Molly came back in with his coffee and he gave her another crooked smile. Had anyone cared to notice, they would have seen that Sherlock was holding his head just _so_ at the perfect angle to show off the red mark on his neck.

John cursed quietly. He took into consideration this and replied. "And if you don't, something else would probably happen." He looked at Molly as her face dropped a bit. She cleared her throat and made herself look busy as John took Sherlock further away to speak to him in a hushed voice.

"Sherlock, if it comes down to it... If your life depends on it, I want you to risk mine."

He looked into Sherlock's silver eyes and gave him a serious look. "What's worse - both of us severely injured or dead or just one of us?" They were harsh words but they had to be spoken.

Sherlock didn't say a word. He was staring down at his fingers as he thought that over.

"I hope it won't come down to that," he said finally, not looking at Molly or John. "Molly, I told DI Lestrade that I'd be here most of the afternoon. Be a dear and tell him I've gone home if he calls? Thank you." He collected the lighter and his coat and scarf before sweeping out, looking distinctly troubled.

"O-okay. Your coffee- Oh, never mind then." Molly blushed and took the coffee away, smiling at John. The poor girl was just so unobservant.

"Where are you going? Sherlock!" John followed his lover, grabbing his arm and making him stop. "Can I come?" His face was concerned but he wanted in. No way were Sherlock and John going to be separated for long after what just happened.

"I'm going to walk back to the flat. If you go in that direction," one hand pointed down the main street, "Mycroft will have a car meet you within five minutes and take you home. I need some time to clear my head, John. Please don't worry." He touched his lover's cheek lightly before striding off, his hands deep in his pockets and his coat flaring slightly behind him.

John opened his mouth to protest but the touch to his cheek calmed him down somewhat. "Okay... I love you." He said, though Sherlock was probably too far gone to hear it. He took a breath and gave Sherlock one last look before turning on his heels and headed the other direction. Sure enough, a black car pulled up about five minutes later.

Mycroft Holmes was actually kind enough to lean over and open the door for John. "Get in, Doctor Watson. Let's have you home before everyone's favourite psychopath snatches you off the street." Leaving the door open, he leaned back in his seat, his usual umbrella propped on the car's floor between his feet. John nodded, glancing around once before sitting beside Mycroft. He didn't quite meet his eyes, but the doctor did say thank you.

"Look, do you know anything more about this case?" His hands twisted together as the car pulled off. Mycroft had that man-in-power aura about him and it was almost proctective.

"Only that there was a rather threatening package left for my brother at Scotland Yard. A threat upon your person, actually, given his general upset and your anxiety about all this." The car pulled smoothly away from the curb as Mycroft spoke. "It's a wonder Sherlock's even letting me get my hand in this one."

"You're his brother." John replied with a little shrug. "Where did you say we were going? I don't want to be apart from Sherlock too long. Not after this." John looked at Mycroft and then out the window, watching as London zoomed by. "You won't let anything happen to him will you?"

"I'm taking you back to your flat, Doctor Watson. Where you'll be at least reasonably safe." Mycroft glanced out the window, presumably to check where they were at the moment. "I'll do everything in my not inconsiderable power to keep the two of you safe."

John was grateful that Sherlock had a brother like Mycroft. Sure, they may not be close brothers, but Mycroft cared. As the car pulled up outside 221B, John stepped out.

"Thank you, Mycroft. Really."

"Not a problem, Doctor Watson-"

"Please, call me John." The doctor managed to smile at the elder Holmes brother. The other nodded once and closed the door, only to have the tinted window roll down right after.

"Have a good day, John." With that, the sleek black car pulled away and drove off. John could only watch as it turned a corner and he walked up to his front door. Mrs. Hudson was in the hallway watering her indoor plants. John nodded to her and proceeded up the seventeen steps two at a time.

* * *

><p><strong>This chapter is exactly how the roleplay went. I'm happy to have got this much correct.<strong>

**How about this, a free hug if you review? Nah, I kid. But I do like reviews and story alerts, so bring 'em on.**


	6. Pets Off Their Leash

**My goodness, I was amazed at the amount of you who story-alerted and favourited. I'm honestly chuffed with it! Anyway, this is a long chapter but it's where all the problems finally come to light.**

**Warnings: Contains slash. **

**Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to the BBC. I only own this plot.**

* * *

><p>John paced around the flat like a worried mother waiting on her children to come home. Bitsy had purred around his feet when he came home, nuzzling into his leg as a "welcome home". Tobias, however, had taken to sitting by the coat rack. He kept glancing back at John as if to say "where's the other one?"<p>

Taking out his phone, John sent a text. It had been at least forty-five minutes since he left Sherlock and the worry was eating away at his gut. /_Where are you? I'm worried. Please don't be too long, Sherlock – JW/ _Putting his phone back on the table, John stopped to take a breather and make some tea. Carding a hand through his short hair, he clicked down the kettle.

Ten minutes later John heard the familiar sound of the front door unlocking. Jumping up from his seat, he rushed to the door and yanked it open in time to see a dishevelled looking Sherlock stagger up the stairs. He was clutching at his left arm and there were small cuts around his lip.

"Jesus Sherlock!" John helped his boyfriend up the last few steps and settled him down on his armchair. "I was so worried! Who did this?" He was fussing around, taking off Sherlock's blood stained coat and tossing it aside.

"John, stop. I'm f-fine." Sherlock wheezed, laying his head to rest on the back of his chair. In the light, John could see a small bruise around his lover's right eye. His bottom lip was split and bleeding around the cuts. "It's just a few bruises."

"And a bleeding arm, bruised eye and from the sounds of it a bloody cracked rib. I am a doctor you know." John shook his head, feeling almost angry at whoever did this. "…Please tell me it wasn't Moriarty?"

"No, no. It was just his two goons. G-got me with a knife to the arm… Threw a few punches too."

"And then what?" John started to open Sherlock's shirt, careful of his ribs.

"And then I got them back. They're really quite t-thick." Sherlock winced and tried to swat John's hand away but stopped when he saw the concerned and stern look on his face. "Sorry. Look, I'll be fine by the morning."

John threw the shirt to the ground and went to fill a bowl of tepid water. "But you're not okay now. Let me help you alright?" He returned with the bowl and a face-cloth, sipping it in and squeezing any excess water out of it. Sherlock could only nod and close his eyes when John began to dab at the slit cut on his arm. When the blood was cleaned off from his arm, John wiped it with anti-septic (which stung a bit and made Sherlock hiss), wrapped it with a bandage and secured it in place.

"I'm just going to check your ribs for tenderness, alright?" John received another nod. "Now, breathe in for me." Sherlock did as he was told and took a slow breath.

"It doesn't hurt."

"Okay, good sign. What about this?" John gently applied pressure to the ribs, and Sherlock hissed gently. "Alright, just a mild break in the cartilage… It's a small fracture. You," he stood up and leaned down to inspect his eye, "you have to take it easy. No running around for at least twenty-four hours. And I go where you go, understood?"

Sherlock watched John as he took care of him. He was so protective, so nurturing, that Sherlock wondered what would happen if he wasn't there? "Yes John, understood. You can stop fussing now and make me a strong cup of Darjeerling tea. Please."

John was mildly surprised at how Sherlock complied without a fight. He smiled down and pressed a light kiss to Sherlock's forehead. "Coming up, love. Tobias missed you." John nodded to the tomcat who was sitting by Sherlock's feet, looking up at his master with wide eyes.

"Come on, then. Up." The detective patted his knees and Tobias hopped up a moment later. He made himself comfortable and lay down. John picked Bitsy up and carried her to her bed. He made both himself and Sherlock a cup of tea and settled into his own chair.

"You need to rest. Let's go to bed, eh?" John looked over at Sherlock a good twenty minutes later, who was almost dozing off. Taking his hand, John led him carefully up the stairs and prepared him for bed. "Hold still." He motioned, rubbing some healing cream onto his lip and anti-bruising cream around his eye.

"You're too kind for your own good." Sherlock whispered once he and John were under the covers. "It worries me sometimes."

"I'm just worried about losing you. Look, let's get some peace for tonight and forget all about Moriarty. Tomorrow, we'll head back to Scotland Yard and see if anything else has come up." John wrapped his arms protectively around Sherlock, afraid that if he let go, the man would simply disappear into thin air.

"Mhm. I'm sure this is just another one of his _games._" Sherlock said the word with distaste, seeing as his last "game" almost left them dead. "Night, John."

"Goodnight, Sherlock."

* * *

><p>Rain was pouring down the next morning and it made Sherlock frown at the window. When John woke up, he glanced bleary-eyed down at his boyfriend and raised an eyebrow.<p>

"Sherlock? Are you okay?" The detective looked up and cleared his throat. The swell around his eye had gone down and his cuts were almost invisible. The look on his face was one of discomfort and annoyance.

"It's raining. Rain always means something bad. Don't expect anything good to happen." Sherlock sat up, feeling for tenderness around his ribs.

"I don't expect good news anything when it comes to Moriarty. Let me have a look at you." John peered down at the area. It was red and just a little bit swelled.

"It doesn't hurt anymore. The skin does." Sherlock sighed and let his head fall softly back against the headboard. "We should have a shower."

John pursed his lips and touched Sherlock's cheek lightly. "How about we take one together? Saving water and all that." Sherlock's cheeks displayed feint colouring then but he nodded, lips quirking upwards in a half smile.

John ran the shower and was gathering the shower gels and shampoo when he felt cool hand slip around his waist and under his t-shirt. He relaxed into Sherlock's embrace and let his head fall back onto the taller man's shoulder. "We should step in while the water is hot." Sherlock nipped at the shell of John's ear and they undressed each other.

John adjusted the shower hose so it would suit both of their heights. Turning around, he stood tip-toed to kiss Sherlock. John's tongue brushed slowly along the detective's lower lip and he granted entrance, locking his arms around the older man's waist. The kiss was heated and by the time they pulled away, Sherlock's back was against the cool wall of the shower.

"Later." John whispered with a chuckle. "I don't want you waddling into the Yard thismorning. Lestrade will definitely know something is up." Sherlock laughed and they separated. The steam from the shower and the heat of the kiss took the blame for his flushed cheeks. John reached down and handed Sherlock his shampoo while taking his Blonde one. They showered together, even taking turns to massage shampoo into each other's hair, and by the time they stepped out the bathroom was more like a sauna.

"I have no shirts left. Jesus, we need to either get Mrs. Hudson to do some washing for us or find the time to do it ourselves." John towelled his wet hair and moved to Sherlock's drawer (yes, Sherlock's clothes officially took up half the space of his wardrobe) to fish around.

"She'll just give us the 'not your housekeeper' line again. But she'd still do it, bless her." Sherlock smirked when John pulled out a grey t-shirt.

"Sherlock is this _really _the biggest size thing you own?" The t-shirt was not only tight (and defining John's army muscles), it was a v-neck and exposed some of his chest. John raised an eyebrow as he looked at himself in the mirror.

"In my defence it looks great on you." Sherlock broke into a grin and John pulled a face when he found a pair of his own jeans. No way was he chancing a pair of Sherlock's trousers. Sherlock dressed in his usual smart style; white shirt, black suit jacket and black trousers. John found a deep purple cardigan in the back of the wardrobe and shrugged it on over the t-shirt. He really did look gay.

* * *

><p>"What the hell are the Yard going to think when I come in wearing this? And walking with you. I'm pretty sure they've already put two and two together from yesterday." John almost shrank behind his lover as they walked. He shivered a bit, cursing himself for once again leaving his jacket behind.<p>

"Does it matter what they think? We're a couple. Why should we have to hide that?" Sherlock grabbed John's hand and pulled him to his side. John just smiled and linked their fingers together. An elderly couple tutted at them in the street and it took all of John's social decency not to ask them what the hell their problem was.

"Won't Anderson just use this to make snide comments about us?" John frowned as they approached the entrance to Scotland Yard. The doors were glass and inside John could see Anderson, Donovan and Lestrade in conversation. Sherlock stopped before entering and tilted his head at John.

"Of all the things to say John, really." He scoffed. "Anderson has the IQ of a bloody bird. His opinion isn't something to worry about." John stood for a minute looking into Sherlock's silverfish eyes.

"Oh fuck it, it really doesn't matter!" And with that, he grabbed Sherlock by the lapels of his long coat and kissed him square on the mouth. Of course, all three on the inside saw. Donovan looked gobsmacked and Anderson looked utterly disgusted. Lestrade, however, just smirked and muttered a 'knew it' under his breath as they walked in.

"Morning Sally. Terrible weather isn't it?" Sherlock beamed at the tanned woman, whose mouth was still hanging open. John just rolled his eyes – Sherlock's smugness about their relationship was cute but at the same time quite embarrassing.

"Right, how did Bart's go?" Lestrade asked, walking with the couple to his office,

"The lighter was empty." John sighed. "I don't know what it means."

"It doesn't mean anything." Sherlock added silently. His fingers were steepled under his chin in his thinking pose.

"What?" Lestrade folded his arms and shook his head. "I don't understand."

"Yeah, neither do I. I thought you said he meant for you to fill it?" John looked at Sherlock and the detective met his eyes briefly. "You know, trigger a chain reaction?"

"Forget that. The lighter was just a silly distraction. The picture is the real clue."

"So wait, what are you saying? Moriarty's going to burn John? Or… Burn "the heart out of you" as he so elegantly put it." Lestrade sat down in his swivel chair and looked between Sherlock and John, who shook his head.

"He wants me out… I a_m _Sherlock's heart, metaphorically speaking, and Jim Moriarty doesn't like that. He wants…" The doctor took a breath and looked down. "He wants Sherlock all to himself. And he's going to do everything he can until he gets his own way."

"No. John I already told you I refuse to let him think he's won!" Sherlock paced back and forth in the small office, rambling off incoherent thoughts and making deductions. "We'll have to be extra vigilant alright?"

Lestrade stood up and pinched the bridge of his nose. "You two should go home. Take it easy. I'll see if there's been any suspicious behaviour around your flat." The DI opened the door but stopped John before he could walk out. "I suppose I should say congrats to you both."

"Thank you, Lestrade. Come along John." Taking the older man's hand again, Sherlock led the two of them out onto the street to wait for a cab. The clouds had darkened considerably and though the rain had stopped, the chill in the air along with the thunder in the distance was enough to make John shiver violently in his too-tight t-shirt.

Sherlock shifted his long coat to cover John, shaking his head. "That's what you get for leaving without putting your coat on." He murmured, for John's ears only. "I suppose I'll have to warm you up when we get home, won't I?" He held his head high enough that John couldn't see the colour staining his cheeks. Before they did it for the first time he never would have had the nerve to say something like that. John could only smile and lean into the heater that was Sherlock.

The cab came and they sat in the back, entangled together to keep warm as they headed for home.

* * *

><p>John needed to know they were being protected. Sure, Mycroft had his cars follow the couple when he could, but he didn't know whether that was truly going to keep them safe. Nothing had happened in the two days since they had last been to The Yard, but it didn't stop the constant worry gnawing at John's stomach. He sent a quick text to Mycroft asking him to meet for coffee. John knew Sherlock would more than likely disapprove of his brother being so involved, so he would have to be sneaky.<p>

"I won't be long." He whispered to the detective who was sleeping on the sofa. Ripping a piece of paper out of his notebook, John scribbled down a message explaining he was going to buy milk and he would be back soon. Making sure to bring his jacket this time, the doctor left 221B quietly and headed down the road.

Within two minutes, a sleek black car pulled up beside him. "Good evening John. Take a seat." Mycroft gave the man his usual half smile and opened the door.

"I'm sorry for interrupting you, Mycroft." John settled back on the creamy leather seats (they were also heated, John noted) and clicked his belt into place.

"Nonsense, John. Anything that is perturbing you or my brother is important to me." He tapped the tip of his umbrella to the back of the driver's seat and gave the name of some fancy French café John had never heard of. "I think congratulations are in order, too. You're good for him."

"Uh, thank you. We won't be long will we? It's just that Sherlock doesn't know I'm gone." John glanced outside as they turned down Kensington; a posher side of London.

"We shouldn't be. Ah, here we are - Le Jardin Des Cygnes." Mycroft said the name with a perfect French accent. "It means The Garden of Swans."

"Oh, right." John was let out of the car by the driver and looked up at the larger than average café. "This looks expensive. Can I pay you back later?" They entered and sat down at a table near the back. It was decorated with delicate white lace over a blue tablecloth.

"Don't worry about it John. My treat today." Mycroft took up the menu and sniffed, switching to the tea section. "Now, what was on your mind? I have already spoken to Detective Inspector Lestrade to get his side of all this."

"It's the flat. I don't know if it's possible but I was wondering if one of your men could keep constant watch on it. I've been losing sleep thinking about Moriarty and worrying about Sherlock."

"Already done." Mycroft said, waving over a waiter.

"What?" John was about to ask what he meant but this was Mycroft – Sherlock's older, protective brother who held a 'minor role' in the government.

"I had twenty-four hour surveillance set up for you both a few days ago. Your uncertainty surrounding your safety should subside somewhat. And John, there are two of you in this relationship."

"Well… Thank you… And yes I know but I still can't feel at ease knowing that son of a-" John calmed himself and rubbed his hand over his face.

"Chances are your safety is more at risk. Don't forget that Moriarty's infatuation is with Sherlock. He's not going to want to hurt him before he tries to get you out of the picture." As the waiter came over, Moriarty gestured for John to order first.

"Oh, I'll have an omelette and a cup of coffee with extra milk and a spoon of sugar please." He handed his menu up. Mycroft did the same.

"Just a Greek salad and a cup of green tea for me, thank you." Mycroft offered the waiter a little half-smile, so much like his younger brother's. It was easy to see where Sherlock got all his little quirks and habits. "Don't worry about him, John. It's Sherlock... He's a genius, remember? He'll keep himself safe."

"I just hope you're right, Mycroft. And thanks again for the surveillance thing." Mycroft hadn't mentioned that the surveillance had been set up right after John actually moved in. It was better to have him think it was a new thing or John would just become wary of him. Their order arrived several minutes later and they tucked in.

* * *

><p>"I'll keep in touch John. You really are doing a wonderful job of taking care of my younger brother."<p>

"I try my best. Thanks for everything." John shut the car door and headed upstairs. He was attacked by Sherlock the minute he opened the door. He was pinned harshly against the door and kissed hard, bruising and needy. When the detective pulled back, John could only pant for breath and catch him as he melted forward.

"A little more warning before you run out to the shops would be nice," he said softly. "And it would be even nicer if you came back with what you went out for." The lanky detective leaned in for another, slightly needier kiss, shifting slightly against John's chest. Even still wincing when he moved the wrong way, Sherlock's mind was still clearly in the gutter. The attack last night must have hurt him more than he realised.

"I'm sorry love…" Did John dare tell him where he really went. Bracing himself, he pulled Sherlock back and looked at him. "…I went to see Mycroft. To talk."

"Why?" Sherlock's arms found themselves around John's waist, desperate not to let go. His tone had a hint of jealousy about it.

"I thought he might know more. He's really looking out for us, you know."

"I know that. The flat has been bugged for a while now." Sherlock made a small face but made no snide comment.

"Oh? Interesting… He said it was only a few days ago. Wait, so that's how he knows about us? He's been watching us?" John immediately wondered just how much the elder Holmes brother actually saw.

"That and through Lestrade. It's his favourite game, watching me. Making sure I don't do anything silly. He's let up a good bit since you arrived." Sherlock chuckled softly and peeled away from John. "I'm hungry."

"Lestrade? Since when have those two started talking?" John took a breath and followed Sherlock. "Maybe we should go get a bite to eat? That new Thai restaurant you like is opened late for take-away."

"You should go. I'm sure Mycroft will have someone follow you." Before John had a chance to answer, Sherlock launched at him again and nuzzled John's neck. "I love you, you over-protective doctor." John held back and stroked Sherlock's soft curls, inhaling.

"Someone has to be the protective one. You'd end up in a ditch somewhere if I didn't keep watch on you like this. I love you too, Sherlock." Giving one last squeeze, John leaned back. "I should go. I take it you want the extra spicy sauce too?"

"You know me so well." Sherlock grinned and handed John his wallet. "Don't be too long, love." John stole a quick peck before heading down the stairs and out the door. At best, the take-out was only ten minutes away. John was vaguely aware of a black car following close by. It was bigger than Mycroft's usual cars and possibly older going by the sound of that engine.

Eventually the car disappeared. Just as John's hand reached the handle of the Thai restaurant, he heard footsteps behind him.

"Now now, Johnny boy." John froze. There was no mistaking that menacing voice. "What are you doing off that leash of yours? Loyal pets never leave their master's side." Moriarty. Taking a slow breath, John turned around to face the voice.

Moriarty's face was twisted in an evil smirk, standing by the open door of the same black car that had been following him.

**Dun dun dun! Right, the next chapter should be up tomorrow at the latest. I need to do a mind-search and channel my memories into the next few chapters.**

**And yes, there will be some Mystrade later on.**

**Thanks a million guys, your support really motivates me :) **


	7. This Is Just The Beginning

**Shorter chapter than usual but surprisingly hard to write. I had to improvise here and I could have made it better, but it's going well for the time being. **

**Warnings: Contains slash.**

**Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to the BBC. I only own this plot.**

* * *

><p>John knew what he had to do. While his hand was in his pocket, he pushed the first number on the keypad; speed-dial for Sherlock. Of course, it was all done in a sneaky manner. Now he would have to wait, and hope this would be a success or it could all end in tears.<p>

"Jim. It's been a while." John couldn't bring himself to look at those cold dark eyes for more than a few seconds. Moriarty just snickered and took a step forward.

"Save the small talk, John. We need to get down to business." Stopping just before John, Moriarty who was the exact same height leered forward. "I want you to be a good dog and so my bidding. It's my _job _to get rid of strays." John could feel his heart-rate increase with every word that escaped the consulting criminal's lips.

"If you got rid of me," John wet his lips nervously. He was taking a big risk here, "It will break Sherlock's heart. I thought you wanted to keep Sherlock all to yourself?"

"Well, that was the plan yes. What is your point, Johnny boy? You're only wasting time."

_Good, _John thought. "My point is that even if you do succeed, Sherlock would be too upset or perhaps too angry to do your will. Therefore, your plan will just fail. Am I right?" Glancing briefly behind the Irishman, John could hear the screeching of tyres. His phone buzzed at that time. Sherlock was trying to re-connect with him.

"You really think I'm thick don't you?" Moriarty smirked again and licked his lips. "I _always_ have a plan, Johnny boy. Now be a good pet and get in the car." John gulped, thinking he should have brought his gun. It was too late now – all John could do to keep himself alive was to go along with the criminal. Either that or risk death. No way was he going to let Moriarty have this round.

"Fine... I'll do what you want." John swallowed. Sirens could be heard in the distance and John knew not to react. But Moriarty wasn't deaf, and he certainly wasn't stupid. Taking John's arm, he roughly dragged the doctor forward to his car and pushed him in. John landed with a harsh thump onto the floor of the car. The sirens got louder and Moriarty was cursing himself silently.

"Stay." He warned John, glaring at him. John stayed completely silent.

"Where is he? What have you done with him?" Sherlock's voice thundered from across the road and John sat up when Moriarty's back was turned. Mycroft could be heard telling his brother to stay calm.

"We've you got you surrounded, Jim. Give it up!" Lestrade roared, both he and his team stepping out of their cars with guns raised. They all knew of the shit Moriarty could stir. John caught Sherlock's eyes and the detective shook his head.

"I see you've come to collect your dear pet, Sherlock. He's been very obedient; I can see why you fell in love with him." Moriarty's grin was like a shark. "Then again, this is the second time he's been so eager to risk his life for yours."

"I'm the one you want. Just take me and let John go." Sherlock sounded distressed and couldn't meet John's eyes. Or at least, judging by the very brief glance he shot his lover was pretending to. John knew that glance all too well – Sherlock had a plan.

"Offering your own self to me freely? This all seems too good to be true. Then again," Moriarty walked forward until he was in the middle of Sherlock, Lestrade's team, and John in the car, "I can't waste a good offer now can I?"

Sherlock feigned fright, widening his silver eyes and gulping loud. "Just do it. I know John will find me anyway. Now hurry up before I change my mind." Just as Moriarty went to take another step forward, John knew he had to do it.

"No!" He jumped out of the car and latched onto Moriarty to pin him down. "You bastard!" If John had a gun he would shoot him right there and then. Sherlock ran forward and tore John away from the psycho. He dragged him towards Mycroft's own sleek black car until he was against the door.

"John," he whispered, "Trust me." John felt his knees turn to jelly and the very leg that was the victim of a psychosomatic limp just a few months ago started to act up again. He could only nod.

"_Now!" _Sherlock looked at Lestrade and gestured with his hands to Moriarty. Lestrade's team immediately started to shoot at Moriarty. The only place the criminal got hit was barely even a hit. It grazed past his thigh and once he was distracted by the pain, Lestrade handcuffed him. But even through his pain, Moriarty still managed to send a smirk towards the couple.

"Don't think you've won just yet, Sherlock Holmes. I'm only getting started." He winked at the detective and sneered at John. "Take me away boys!" As the psycho was led into one of the police cars, Sherlock turned to John. By now he was supporting himself on the car door. Mycroft had given them some space, walking instead to Lestrade for a private conversation.

"You knew I was here?" John asked, receiving a hug from Sherlock. He had forgotten about ringing him.

"You called me and I immediately called Mycroft. Of course, he was already halfway there so I got Lestrade to collect me and bring me to you."

"I'm sorry for putting us in danger." John leaned into the hug and was helped into Mycroft's car by Sherlock.

"You didn't put anyone in danger, John. And look he got arrested."

"Didn't you hear him? Sherlock he got away once he'll do it again!" John was getting frantic now and it took Sherlock having to sit in beside him and hold him to calm the man down.

"Stop it! We're safe. _You're_ safe. Let's go home, alright?" Sherlock's hand carded through John's short cropped hair and he gave his lover a kiss. "He can't possibly do anything now. He's playing games with us. Fear, John, is our biggest enemy."

John relaxed and it took all his might not to take Sherlock for himself right here in the back of Mycroft's car. "I just hope you're right. If anything did happen to you, I'd never forgive myself."

"Lestrade is locking him up for tonight. He will be questioned first thing in the morning." The elder Holmes brother looked between them. "Remember that I am going to do everything I can to keep the two of you safe."

"Thank you, Mycroft." Both John and Mycroft raised an eyebrow at this. Sherlock's tone of voice was so genuine and the detective even offered his older brother a warm smile.

The cab may have been bringing them back to their safe-haven, but John somehow knew the war was not over yet; it was only beginning.

* * *

><p><strong>Review replies-<strong>

**smimjin: You are very random :P Danke!**

**Scribblez: I hope you will continue to enjoy this! And there will be more.**

**Please keep reading guys. The troubles are not over yet, my friends. Next chapter will be longer and maybe smuttier. I think we need a slight break from the heavy drama.**


	8. Impossible

**Fluff and smut to make things lighter before it turns dangerous again. Yay.**

**Warnings: Contains slash. **

**Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to the BBC. I only own this plot. I don't own Criminal Minds or NCIS either. If I really did own Sherlock… **_**Well…**_

* * *

><p>Waking up late the next morning in John's arms was a godsend. Sherlock couldn't imagine being without his blogger, his best friend and first ever lover. If Moriarty had won last night, if John hadn't phoned Sherlock or if they had been a minute late… Sherlock didn't even want to imagine.<p>

John was also the only one who could take Sherlock and actually make the genius stop thinking; that itself was a huge achievement. In the great detective's defence, though, it was only when they had sex. That's what he told himself.

The rain from the previous day hadn't died a great lot. It was still pouring when Sherlock woke up. Turning over to face John, who was still fast asleep, the detective smiled. His eyes were closed and his mouth open slightly – he looked so peaceful.

After a while of good, lingering staring, Sherlock finally sat up and swung his legs out of bed. It was about half past twelve in the day at this point and he could stay in bed no longer. John, however, needed sleep. Sherlock may be one for going days on end without it and being able to function normally, but John lacked that ability. Tucking the covers around his sleeping lover and kissing his forehead, Sherlock sighed and went to look for his underwear and something to wear downstairs.

Smells of burning toast, overcooked bacon, added with the sounds of clattering and a string of four letter words made John stir and wake up. Pulling on some pyjama bottoms, John headed downstairs expecting the kitchen to be on fire. What he saw made him smile and by the time he reached the main room, laugh.

"Oh, good afternoon John. Take a seat!" Sherlock was in the middle of cracking an egg into a sizzling pan. Already laid out on a plate where John normally sat were two sausages, a strip of almost-black crisped bacon and a slice of toast (the singed part had been scraped off with a knife, by the looks of it.)

"You cooked breakfast? Well this is a first." John feigned shock and sat down. "I'm messing, love. Thank you."

"Well really it would be considered brunch. I've done this before- It's just been a long time. And the yolks of these eggs are running!" Sherlock grumbled something like a threat to the eggs before whisking them around. "I hope you don't mind them scrambled. Oh, and there's tea in that pot beside you."

"Scrambled egg sounds lovely." John chuckled and poured out two teas. "Aren't you going to eat any?" He took a bite of his bacon and declared it edible.

"I already had a slice of toast when I cooked this." John looked to the plate next to him and saw evidence of toast crust left behind. Shaking his head, he plucked one of his own sausages from his plate and put it on Sherlock's. The detective came over and scraped the egg onto John's plate.

"Now sit down, love. Your tea will go cold." John pulled out Sherlock's seat as he sat down with a smirk. Sherlock looked down at his plate with a roll of his eyes, but nibbled at his sausage anyway.

"Is it alright? The bacon go a bit burned and I wasn't sure about the sausages but it smelled okay so-"

"It's fine, Sherlock. Here," John scooped up a small amount of egg onto his fork and held it out, "You may as well taste your own food." Sherlock looked at the fork which was just by his mouth and then back to John. A hint of a smirk was playing at the corners of his lips. Parting those lips, the detective darted his tongue out to moisten them. Slowly, his lips closed around the fork and very, _very _seductively he slid the egg off and sat back to eat it. All the while John had been biting his own bottom lip.

"Very nice, John. I really must be a wonderful cook." Sherlock's tongue ran along his bottom lip to lick any excess food away. A quick, unexpected kiss from John confirmed those thoughts and Sherlock held him there by the back of his neck for a few more seconds. The sudden hungry cry of Bitsy twirling around their legs made them both separate.

"I guess Bitsy wants a sample of your culinary prowess too." John tore off a square of Bacon and threw it down to Bitsy. Of course, like children, if one gets something then so should the other. Tobias hopped down from Sherlock's armchair where he had been resting, gave a long stretch and purred at John's feet until he too got a piece.

"I see the kids are hungry." Sherlock snorted and noted how trusting Tobias had got of John. "How about we take a break today, just for ourselves?"

"I'd like that." John's hand found its way across the table to Sherlock's, fitting it and holding it. The detective smiled and they finished their breakfast in silence.

* * *

><p>"Criminal Minds or NCIS?" John waved the two box-sets in the air and fiddled with the DVD player.<p>

"I don't mind. You choose, love." Said Sherlock as he sat back on the couch with a stretch. In the end, John went with Criminal Minds. He sat beside Sherlock, tucking his feet under him and cuddling closer to his slightly taller boyfriend.

After half an episode that John had seen already, the doctor started to get bored (god, was he picking up Sherlock's habits?) His hand trailed slowly up Sherlock's shirt, plucking at but not _opening _the buttons. His fingers slowly traced the long, pale neck and jawline. Sherlock just smiled and tipped his head back slightly to allow John more leeway. The blonde man squirmed and while Sherlock was distracted by one of the scenes on Criminal Minds, shifted his position entirely so he was straddling Sherlock's lap.

"You know, Sherlock," John's hand was now on Sherlock's chest, scratching playfully at the light material, "Mycroft said there were cameras watching us. How about we try for some privacy? Give him a show to scare him into turning them off." His voice had dropped to a low whisper and he nipped lightly at Sherlock's ear.

"John? Now? But it's the middle of the… Oh…" His cheeks flushed lightly at the nip on his ear. Until John had taken a liking to doing that he hadn't even thought of that as a particularly sensitive spot, but now it had him shifting in his seat and closing his eyes. "I see. Well, hopefully he has the sense to turn them off this time. I think that assistance of his, Anthea, might enjoy listening in a little too much."

"Anthea too? Oh dear…" John tutted and pressed his body closer, moving his lips to suck on Sherlock's sensitive skin under the jawbone. His mouth moved down slowly until it reached the crook of his neck and it left a red mark there. Sherlock's shirt buttons were eventually worked open to expose his chest. Giving his lover a wanton gaze, John leaned down and licked gently at one taut nipple.

Sherlock's back arched just a little bit. John let his hands palm at the growing bulge under Sherlock's trousers, emitting a shuddered breath from the detective's plump lips. "Dammit, John, this couch just isn't conductive to this." How he still managed such eloquent sentences was beyond anyone. He had to take soft pants between, but he still managed a mostly coherent sentence. "But I can't be damned to move." He added finally, bringing a hand up to curl it behind John's head and pull him into a somewhat messy kiss with his other hand slowly making its way up John's back.

Before John could control it, a choked, needy almost _moan-like _sound escaped him and he had to pull back from the kiss and hide his face in Sherlock's neck. "…John?" Sherlock tilted his head and peered down at his boyfriend.

"I-I'm fine. I just got a mental image that's all." To think he had just about moaned before anything actually happened was a bit embarrassing.

"John, any sort of mental image that pulls _that _sort of noise from you, is something I want to know. You rarely get so shy over this."

"I… It's not important. Just kiss me!" John was holding back from grinding against Sherlock's hips and he had to take a deep breath to compose himself.

"No, I want to know. Tell me." John just couldn't resist that voice anymore. Closing his eyes out of embarrassment, the doctor could feel his cheeks burn.

"The image," He pressed closer to Sherlock and spoke into his shoulder, "was us… switching places…"

"What do you mean?" Sherlock asked, pulling John back so he could look at him. Of all the questions he could ask at a time like that.

"I mean… Oh, god. I mean instead of me… topping you, you top me." John groaned and looked at Sherlock. "I told you it wasn't important." John got a blinking Sherlock in response.

"Well… U-um, that's an interesting thought to have." Sherlock finally smiled and touched John's cheek quickly. That seemed to be their little code, a silent I love you and a sign that everything would be fine. "Studies show that couples last the longest if both partners give and take. You seem to be the one giving all the time so… now it's my turn." John immediately calmed down.

Sherlock continued where he left off, giving John a long, heated kiss. Though he didn't look it, the detective was very strong when he had to be. He was strong enough to curl his hands under John's thighs and lift him up high enough to turn around and lay John on his back.

"O-only if you're sure about this, Sherlock." John was answered with a roll of his eyes and another kiss. Sherlock told him to wait and ran upstairs. In a matter of seconds (a record) he was back down again with the lubricant. Tossing it aside for a minute, Sherlock turned his attention back to John. It was a good thing he was only in his pyjama bottoms for the time being; made things a whole lot handier.

The detective's long and slender fingers ran along John's toned, tanned body, tracing the lines of taut muscle. He shimmied down further so his face was level with John's boxers. This was rather new to Sherlock, and his eyes flicked upwards. Seeing the obviously pleased look on John's face, he continued. Taking the waistband of John's boxers between his teeth, he dragged them down to free John's length and threw them aside.

His hand curled around the base of John's length and slowly worked its way upwards. John closed his eyes, hands grabbing onto the sides of the couch. Sherlock kept up his slow pumping, thumb stroking over the head. That made John intake a sharp breath. Smirking, Sherlock did that a few more times, even daring to lick at it with his tongue. He wasn't quite confident enough to take it all into his mouth just yet.

Looking down at his own length which was getting harder by the minute, and then back at John's, Sherlock took both of them into his hand. A low, purr like sound rumbled through his chest as he pleasured them both, grinding lightly when John rolled his hips. Before they became too excited – seeing as they were both leaving little spots of pre cum – Sherlock reached down and took the lube to prepare himself.

First he had to stretch his lover from the inside, so he did so. Because his fingers were long and thin it meant he was able to fit two inside with ease and it wasn't long before he was hitting off John's sweet spot. John moaned and arched his up, head tipping back as he panted.

"Put your legs over my shoulders." He told John when he stopped, slicking his length up. John did as he was told, still panting as he raised his legs and slumped them over Sherlock's pale shoulders. Sherlock put his hands on either side of the couch beside John's head and lined himself up. "I love you." He whispered, bending down for a kiss at the same time as he pushed in.

* * *

><p>"John!" Sherlock collapsed onto his lover's chest and panted along with him. He had managed to reduce his strong army doctor into a moaning, sweaty mess. After a few minutes Sherlock finally spoke up.<p>

"I can see why you suggested we do a position swap… It was different but _God _did that feel good."

"Ditto." John sighed and brought Sherlock's head closer for a kiss. "…We should probably get dressed properly. We don't want Mycroft switching back on the cameras to find us both naked and entangled with eachother." Neither of them was aware of the fact that Mycroft was currently… pre-occupied. Instead, one of his men was keeping watch (but the cameras had been turned off since.)

"I think that's best. I'm so inclined just go to sleep, though."

"But?" John pressed, hauling them both to their feet and going upstairs hand in hand.

"You know me all too well." Sherlock smiled halfway up the stairs and tugged John along. "I was thinking of going to Bart's for the evening. Molly has some fresh limbs for me to test on."

"As long as they don't end up in our fridge this time." John half-scowled as they entered the bedroom. Some of their clothes had been washed, ironed, folded and put away courtesy of Mrs. Hudson. She was the third person to have congratulated them on their relationship. "_At last_" she had said. John wondered if it was the floorboards or the headboard that had given them away. Either way, their old landlady was chuffed.

The couple were in the middle of getting dressed when it happened. John had been attacking Sherlock's ticklish sides, causing the detective to squeal and plead for John to stop through tears of laughter. Everything was fine until there was a knock on the front door. At first, neither of them thought anything of it, with Sherlock quickly buttoning up a new shirt before saying "I'll get that, love," and going downstairs in sock-clad feet to answer the door.

John shrugged on a maroon coloured cardigan and fixed the tail of his tartan shirt when he paused. /_Impossible…/ _he thought. He could have sworn that voice downstairs sounded like- No, no that was impossible. A few seconds later Sherlock's voice travelled upstairs.

"John? Can you come down please?" John knew Sherlock well enough to know when he was in fear. There was the slight shake and raised pitch in his words. Crossing his fingers and praying that his thoughts weren't true, John made his way slowly downstairs and then down the second flight of stairs to the front door.

Sure enough, there standing by the open door with a gun in his hand was Jim Moriarty…

* * *

><p><strong>I had to time-skip to just after the smutty scene. Basically Sherlock made John scream his name *fangirlgiggle*<strong>

**Anyway, thank you for reading as always and please review to let me know your opinion, it does matter to me! **

**As usual, my updates should come quickly. If the next chapter isn't up by tomorrow then it will definitely be the next day. I do try to keep up my record of updating. Thanks again *gives you all a virtual high-five***


	9. Taken

**asdfghjkl; I CANNOT EVEN-**

**WOW. Thank you thank you THANK YOU for all the story alerts and favourites! Short-ish chapter but I need time to get some plot stuff together. AGAIN, thank you!**

**Warnings: Contains slash. **

**Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to the BBC. I only own this plot.**

* * *

><p>John was frozen on the bottom step. For a second, everything seemed to shut down; his vision blurred, ringing started in his ears and his legs turned to jelly. Even the old shake in his hand was starting to come back.<p>

"Well hello there Johnny boy. How nice of you to join us." Moriarty twirled the gun around in his hand. Sherlock kept his gaze fixed onto the wall in front of him, not daring to look at either of them.

"What do you want, Jim…" John kept his voice as steady as possible. How the psychopath was even released from jail was a mystery.

"I had a chance to think while I was in my nice, cosy cell last night. I was thinking how right you were." Moriarty smirked and stepped inside the door. Sherlock flinched and inched closer to John, glancing briefly at him. John could see the fear in his lover's eyes and his heartbeat sped up. "You see, it _is_ you I want to hurt, John. But in order to do that I'll have to take away Sherlock now won't I?"

"You leave him alone!" John stepped down from the last step so he was between the two of them. Sighing dramatically, Moriarty pointed his gun at them both.

"I thought you would do this. Either you follow my orders or I kill you." Sherlock turned his head to Moriarty and opened his mouth.

"What do you want me to do?" The detective's mouth had run dry as he spoke for the first time.

"I want you to be a good lad and come with me. But you can't go around in your socks. John, be a good pet and get Sherlock some shoes and maybe a coat?" The gun had been lowered but the couple both knew if they didn't follow orders things could get ugly. Sherlock nodded at John once.

The doctor all but sprinted upstairs. He hadn't much time and he knew if he didn't hurry, Moriarty would get suspicious. Taking a piece of paper and a pen, he scribbled down a note; _/ I'm calling Mycroft, help is on the way. I'm going to find you Sherlock and I'm bringing my gun with me. I love you so much, don't ever forget that. / _John made the note as small as possible so it would be less noticeable. Taking a pair of Sherlock's shoes, he slipped the note into the toe of the shoe, made sure it wasn't visible and went downstairs. He took up Sherlock's suit jacket from the couch too and when he got back downstairs, Moriarty looked quite impatient.

"These were the most comfy shoes I could find for you." John helped Sherlock put on his shoes and when he was done, Moriarty was on the verge of laughing at them.

"It's time to go, Sherlock." Moriarty pocketed his gun. Seeing the look on the couple's face, he rolled his eyes. "Oh come on now I'm not _completely _heartless. I'll give you two a minute to say goodbye." Smirking, he stood by the door. John got up and hugged Sherlock, inching backwards as if the hug had thrown them both off balance. In reality, it was just to get out of earshot.

"John-"The detective was cut off by John's lips, kissing him hard as if it were the last time they would ever be together. Who knew? It might just be.

"Sherlock listen to me." John's voice was barely a whisper, speaking into the kiss. "Are you listening?" A quick nod was given. "I've slipped a piece of paper into the toe of your left shoe. When he's not looking, take it out and read it." He kissed Sherlock again, slower this time. The detective's arms tightened around John's waist just not wanting to let go.

"I love you." Sherlock whispered as the broke apart. Their hands connected.

"I love you, too." John could feel his voice breaking. One of Sherlock's hands tenderly touched his lover's cheek, the other still holding John's.

"So sorry to break this little emotional _sayonara_," Moriarty's voice was mocking, "but we have a schedule Sherlock. Come along now." John and Sherlock kept staring at eachother as Sherlock slowly walked towards the door. Their hands finally separated and the detective was harshly shoved out.

As soon as the door closed, John broke down. He fell to his knees and held his tingling cheek. His tongue ran along his mouth where he could still taste Sherlock. His lover had been taken. Sobbing but refusing to let a single tear fall, John brought himself to his feet and ran blindingly up to his room. He fumbled around for his phone, searching for Mycroft's number.

* * *

><p>"I already have a driver following them." Mycroft was sitting in Sherlock's armchair frowning. He looked like he had dressed in a bit of a hurry, hair not as smooth as it usually was. Maybe he had been pulled away from a secret lover? Then again, his younger brother got detective-napped so it could just be pure worry.<p>

John was pacing back and forth, shaking his head, until Mycroft stood and sighed. "We still don't know how Moriarty escaped. I knew I should have stayed at home. Sometimes my men leave the sound off when they turn the cameras off."

"It's not your fault Mycroft. It's mine. I shouldn't have let Sherlock go!" John angrily snatched a bag from the ground and headed for the stairs.

"It wouldn't have worked. He had a gun, you said." Mycroft stood and sighed. "Look, go upstairs and pack a few things. By the time you come down I'll have a car ready and waiting." John was already gone up to his room by the last few words. He rushed around and shoved in random items of clothing, a watch, his phone charger and… Sherlock's scarf. He forgot to give Sherlock his long coat and scarf, the detective's two favourite items.

John sat on the edge of the bed and held the blue fabric scarf close to his nose. He inhaled deeply. A hint of Blonde Bombshell shampoo was mixed with the usual Sherlock scent. John smiled. "Using my shampoo again..."

* * *

><p>"Yes, yes thank you Anthea. Tell James we shall be down in a few moments." Mycroft snapped his phone shut and watched as John descended the stairs. Sherlock's scarf was wrapped around his neck. "There is a driver waiting for us outside."<p>

"Thanks." John looked over at Tobias and Bitsy, who were sitting together looking like two lost cats. "Oh I forgot about those two! Mycroft I can't leave them, they'll starve."

"It is sorted John. Mrs. Hudson your landlady will feed them on a regular basis."

"Sometimes I wonder how the world would function without a Mycroft Holmes." John bent down to give the cats a pet. "I'll be back before you know it. The nice old lady downstairs will take care of you. Tobias, look after Bitsy." As if Tobias knew what John was saying, the tabby tomcat nuzzled the smaller white kitten and gave her ears a lick.

"Are you ready, then?" Mycroft tapped his umbrella on the door.

"Yes. I've packed clothes for both myself and Sherlock." John took one last look around 221B Baker Street, taking in all the comforting mess before turning back to Mycroft. "Let's go."

Downstairs, Anthea was typing away on her Blackberry and didn't even look up as she said, "Good afternoon Doctor Watson."

"Afternoon." John replied.

"John this is James, my driver. James, this is John Watson – partner of Sherlock." Mycroft introduced the driver as he stepped out of the car and opened the other car doors. The elder Holmes brother then excused himself to take a phone-call.

"Nice to meet you, James." John greeted and offered his hand. He was bout John's height with dark brown hair and a slightly thinner physique.

"Likewise Mr. Watson." James shook John's hand briefly and then turned his attention to Mycroft when he hung up. "Where will we be driving today, Sir?"

"They're telling me he's headed for Sussex, so drive us there."

"That's over an hour away, isn't it?" John sat into the car and pinched the bridge of his nose. Anthea and Mycroft joined him and soon enough they were pulling away from Baker Street.

"It is, John. You should get some rest and I'll wake you if there's anything new." Mycroft smiled and tried to be re-assuring by patting John's knee. The doctor could only sigh and slump down in his seat, face buried in Sherlock's scarf.

**Poor John… **

**Right, virtual high-fives have upgraded to virtual glomps; with honour. Keep reading and keep supporting the John/Sherlock love. Do any of you want to guess who Mycroft's secret lover might be? (I think we ALL know who that is.) **


	10. Yes Master

**Hello all. This chapter is going to flick back and forth between John and Sherlock's POVs, just so you know what's going on before it all meshes together.**

**I don't want to give too much away with Sherlock, though, so his sections will be shorter than John's. It's all for the greater good! **

**Warnings: Contains slash and scenes of torture; dark scenes ahead.**

**Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to the BBC. I only own this plot.**

* * *

><p>"W-where are we?" Sherlock woke up to Moriarty's car coming to a stop. He had been drugged as soon as they left just to weaken him; but Sherlock Holmes was resilient to drugs and despite the fact he may have been a bit disorientated, he was far from weak just yet. His head got lighter when he sat up and Moriarty reached out to tilt his chin upwards.<p>

"Your new home, Sherlock." The psychopath cooed and gave the chin a quick tap, making Sherlock flinch and inch away. "Now now. We can't be shy anymore, my love. Let's go." He led Sherlock out of the car. Blinking around quite bleary-eyed, the detective saw a huge mansion surrounded by four high walls. There was a gateway that was heavily armed and two watchtowers. '_More Goons,' _Sherlock thought as he was further led up the pathway to the entrance of the mansion.

"I don't want this." Sherlock grunted as the door was shut behind them. There was no way of escaping; Moriarty still had his gun kept close and the guards looked brutal and armed.

"There are things none of us want, Sherlock, but we just have to put up with that now don't we?" Moriarty rang a bell and in a matter of seconds, a dining hall to their left was opened up. "How about we share some food before the _fun _commences, shall we?"

"Is there a bathroom?" Sherlock glanced around. Moriarty sighed and clicked his fingers. A stocky man who could only be labelled as 'Bigger Goon' came around the corner.

"Take him to the bathroom, Bradley, will you? Just stand outside the door and make sure he doesn't escape." Moriarty winked and made his way to the dining room. Sherlock, still quite groggy from the drug, stumbled as he was led down the hall and into a large bathroom. Once inside, he proceeded to take off his left shoe and pull out the note. He smiled; good old John always thinking ahead.

Ripping the note into tiny pieces to get rid of the evidence, the detective flushed them down the toilet. Looking at himself in the large bathroom mirror, Sherlock repressed a sigh. What the hell was going on? He shouldn't have left John like that… _John… _

"Oi, you done in there or what?" Brandon's voice came thundering from the other side just as Sherlock opened the door. "Master Moriarty is waiting for you in the dining room." Taking Sherlock by the elbows, the Bigger Goon led him to the dining room. It was large with an obscenely long table extending lengthways down the middle – like something from the films.

A large feast was laid out at each end; one for Moriarty and one for Sherlock. Sitting down, Sherlock offered Moriarty his best glare and crossed his arms.

"Eat up now, Sherlock. That was an order. My maids cooked this delicious meal for us." Moriarty grinned and poured out a glass of red wine, handing it to a timid looking blonde maid to take to Sherlock.

"I'm not eating any of this." Sherlock sneered, ignoring the glass of wine. For all he knew, they could have been drugged or poisoned. Moriarty shrugged and stuck his fork into a piece of chicken.

"Suit yourself. You're missing out though." His tone was almost mocking as he ate the lump of poultry.

"I'm sure I am." The detective folded one leg over the other and waited for something, _anything, _to happen.

"One might say I should punish you." Taking up his glass the criminal licked his lips around the rim. If that were John, Sherlock would have found it arousing. But it was his enemy and so he was disgusted. "Maybe I will. And very harshly. Just as soon as I finish up here. We have all the time in the world."

_That's what you think, _Sherlock thought with inner glee, _Just wait. _For the duration of the meal he sat there, giving Moriarty dagger glares and sighing rather loudly. What Moriarty didn't know was that Sherlock was used to going for long periods of time without food (much to John's displeasure) and that he wouldn't be hungry until at least the next day.

* * *

><p>"John, wake up." Mycroft shook John gently and the doctor's eyes fluttered open. His head was resting uncomfortably on the car window and he felt almost more tired than he had been when they left Baker Street. "We're just going to stop for some tea."<p>

"Where?" John looked out the window. They were stopped in some quaint little countryside town.

"Not far from Sussex. I've made some phone calls, John."

"Regarding Sherlock?" John opened the door and stepped out with Mycroft. Anthea said something to Mycroft as the car drove away to park, leaving the two standing outside a small café.

"Sort of. I called DI Lestrade. He and a team-member should be arriving later." Mycroft led them both into the little café and to a small window seat. A waiter who looked very impatient handed them a menu each.

"I'll take a Greek Salad and green tea please." John noted that Mycroft seemed to be sticking to his diet (not that he needed to; the man was whippet thin) and seemed to only order Greek salad and a cup of green tea when eating out. When John didn't respond to the waiter's comment of 'and you, Sir?', Mycroft gave his leg a nudge with the tip of his umbrella.

"Huh? Sorry?" John looked up to see the man roll his eyes and tap his pen impatiently on the notepad.

"He asked your order John." Mycroft gave John a concerned look.

"Oh sorry. Just a cup of coffee please." Writing down the order in a scribble, the waiter turned away and stalked to the kitchen area. John was displeased at his attitude and scowled at him walking away.

"Are you alright?" Mycroft rested his elbows on the table and his chin on top of his locked hands. He looked sort of graceful.

"Yeah… Actually no, I'm not. I just want Sherlock back. I don't know what Moriarty wants to do to him but my gut tells me this isn't going to end well Mycroft." John's hand started to shake and he immediately clenched it into a fist on the table. Spotting this, the elder Holmes brother placed his hand in a comforting way over the fist.

"John you must stay positive. I know this is hard but it's _Sherlock _we're talking about. Remember what I said about him being a genius? He still is one. Now take a breath and calm down." John took a breath like he was told and sat back in his chair.

"…Thank you. Sherlock's lucky to have you as a brother."

"He's even luckier to have _you_ as a lover." Mycroft offered his thin smile and retracted his hand back to his own half of the table.

"Have you ever been in love Mycroft?" A strange question, but for some reason John just couldn't picture Mycroft being with a nice woman and having children. The older man's smile grew just slightly.

"I don't know if it's love. Deep affection, though… Yes." John noticed Mycroft used the present tense when his question had clearly been in the past. Saying no more on the matter, he fell silent. It was nice to know Mycroft had somebody too.

Their order arrived some time later after a discussion about what was to happen. They decided they couldn't decide much without Lestrade and whoever else was going to be present. John took up a spoon and added two sugars to his tea, not bothering with milk. He had grown more accustomed to Sherlock's way of doing things and even swapped plain teabags in order to drink more Darjeerling. He had to admit, his boyfriend did have great taste in things.

"Are you not going to eat?" Mycroft's salad had been left untouched for the most part and Mycroft was fine with just a few mouthfuls. John, however, was built differently and ate more often than the Holmes.

"I'm not hungry." And it was truth; John had lost his appetite when Moriarty showed up.

"You will need your energy for later." Mycroft took a sip of his green tea, pulled a face and nudged it to the side. "You're welcome to the rest of my salad if you wish."

"It's fine, but thanks anyway. I'll get something later maybe." John drank down his coffee – not caring that it burned his throat – and waved Mycroft's offer away. Shrugging lightly, Mycroft waited until John was ready to go.

* * *

><p>Moriarty, it seemed, meant what he said about punishment. It <em>was <em>harsh. When he finished his food, the consulting criminal made Sherlock rise from his seat (he had to be dragged, actually, seeing as he did not obey) and pushed him down onto his knees.

"Shirt off." Moriarty shooed the other people from the room and took some rope from a small box. When Sherlock did nothing, his hair was roughly grabbed. "Don't make me hurt you more than I already want to. _Obey your Master." _ Sherlock had no option, so he took his shirt off and it fell to the floor.

"Very good, pet. Now, lean forward so you can receive your punishment." Some rustling could be heard and when Sherlock leaned forward, he caught a glimpse of something long and fine-edged swinging from Moriarty's hands.

His hands were forced behind his back and tied together with rope.

"Are you ready?"

"…" Another rough pull of hair.

"I said, _are you ready?"_

"Y-yes-"

"Yes, _Master!" _ Moriarty let go of Sherlock's hair and raised the whip above his head to lash it down.

The first lash made Sherlock cry out unintentionally. He resisted crying out the second time the sharp edged whip licked across his back, instead making a low whimper and very, very quietly pleading for John. Moriarty grinned and tossed the whip aside. Bending down, he undid the knots tying Sherlock's hands behind his back.

"See now this is what happens when you disobey my orders, pet." He yanked Sherlock to his feet from the dining room floor and handed him his shirt. "But that was only the beginning. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Yes _what?_"

"Yes… Master." Sherlock could feel bile rising when he said that, pure hatred filling his stomach. His upper back was now lined with two straight horizontal gashes which stung when Sherlock shrugged back on his shirt.

"Now follow me and do as you're told. And you will never utter John's name while I am punishing you again. Clear?"

"Yes Master." Sherlock's mouth was set in a straight line as he followed the psychopath out of the dining room and up a large staircase.

It had only been about two hours since he was taken from John but already it felt like a day. Every second spent with Moriarty was as long as an hour. The sting on his back from the whip marks were starting to fade, but something told Sherlock that very soon he would almost crave that very sting; what was coming seemed way worse.

* * *

><p>Mycroft's black car stopped some way away from a high stone wall surrounding what was assumed to be a large house. John couldn't tell, seeing as only part of the roof was visible. It was in the middle of the countryside and the only thing not a field for ages.<p>

"Please tell me this isn't where Sherlock is." John asked, gulping and unconsciously pulling the scarf around his neck tighter. He could see, if he peered hard enough, a gate that was guarded by at least three strong men.

"It is, Doctor Watson." Anthea said, not once looking up from her Blackberry. Mycroft stepped out first, took a look around and signalled for John to follow.

"Keep a low profile, John. I'm sure those guards were told of our descriptions." The elder Holmes brother put his trademark umbrella back into the car just to be safe. There was a line of randomly spaced bushes and trees on the far side of the road, so they headed down that way. The car kept a safe distance behind, driving ahead of them so it wouldn't look suspicious.

"All I want to do right now is go in there and kill that bastard. I did bring my gun." John's voice was low but there was an edge to it that showed he wasn't lying. Mycroft touched his arm and they crouched down low as they got nearer.

"Likewise, John. But we can't be hasty. If we rush on in there I have no doubt things will get ugly." He sighed and squinted his eyes, looking to see which guard was the weakest. "We'll book ourselves into a hotel and wait for Greg- DI Lestrade to arrive. Come on, before we get caught." John knew only two people who called Lestrade by his shortened first name; himself and on rare occasions, Sherlock. To hear Mycroft say it was odd but they were friends weren't they? Well, associates anyway.

Making their way back to the car, John asked what hotel they'd be staying in. Anthea answered when Mycroft looked to her (she was _still _on her Blackberry.)

"Blue Hill Hotel, Sir." The assistant looked up from her Blackberry to the two men before glancing back down again. "Not far from here."

"Thank you Anthea. I'll be sharing a room with Lestrade. Anthea can stay by herself. John you don't mind sharing with James, do you?"

"Not at all." John nodded to the driver who glanced back in his rear-view mirror.

"James is straight so no need to worry." Mycroft smiled. "I'm just teasing. I'm sure you two will be fine." James and John laughed (John's first laugh since they left, but it was forced.) The car drove on for another fifteen minutes until they entered a small town. They arrived at the hotel, which was small and old but elegant in contrast to the surrounding buildings. John sighed and looked at Mycroft.

"I suppose we should check in then." The doctor got out and looked up at the hotel. It would have been nice if Sherlock were there beside him and this was just a weekend break…

* * *

><p><strong>I'm very evil. But then again, in the roleplay it was the idea of BOTH of us, so I'm only <strong>_**half **_**evil in reality. We didn't go into this much detail of Sherlock's torture so maybe that's saying something.**

**Anyway, thanks for the lovely review Vikki20. As for the anonymous one, you may be right.**

**Until next time, slàn leat! (goodbye in Irish)**


	11. A Night Apart

**Big thank you to my Sherlock roleplay partner Sam for proofing this and adjusting when necessary: ****.net/u/2294000/Samuel_MacIntyre**

** She played the part of Sherlock in our roleplays.**

**Warnings: Contains slash and scenes of torture; dark scenes ahead.**

**Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to the BBC. I only own this plot.**

* * *

><p>Once again Sherlock awoke from sleep, aware of a mixture of pained sensations. Moriarty had been careless, and the whip had bitten deeper than it should have across the detective's shoulderblades and at the base of his spine. The half-formed scabs over the lashes pulled tight as Sherlock tensed, and he stopped before they could break open.<p>

This was not what he was used to, being so brutally handled. Moriarty was gone from sight for the moment and Sherlock took that rare quiet time to lift his head (with great effort) from the bed.

It was dark in the room; the windows had been blacked out so Sherlock didn't even know if it was night or day. An absence of natural light made it impossible to tell how long he'd been here. He wasn't wearing a watch, after all. Right now, he couldn't have cared. The pain in his back sent a shock through him when he tried to lift his body up. The skin that wasn't broken from the lashes felt hot and swollen, and Sherlock knew there would be deep bruising there. Shuddering, he let himself collapse face down once more onto the silken bed sheets. His hands were tied in front of his body, silk scarves in naval knots to match the sheets this time, to make room for whatever torture his back endured.

"I see you've woken up, my pet." Behind Sherlock, a chair creaked as a weight was lifted out of it -Moriarty, presumably, a fact that was proved when the mastermind sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled Sherlock onto his back. The detective clenched his jaw to keep in a moan of pain and felt one finger trace the tendons standing out on his neck. Moriarty's weight shifted again as he leaned forward to turn on the bedside light.

In any other circumstances, the soft glow of the little Tiffany lamp would have been romantic. Moriarty perched on the edge of the bed, shirt and trousers unbuttoned and hanging loose. A day's worth of stubble dusted his jaw and cheeks but he seemed not to notice. Holding up his weight with one hand, his other rested in his lap, idly toying with an object that Sherlock couldn't see. "I know leaving you tied up all night was mean, my precious pet, but I know how anticipation makes it all so much sweeter," he practically cooed, still trailing his fingers over Sherlock's neck and jaw.

"Still, I've kept you waiting far too long." The hand in Moriarty's lap lifted, displaying a black leather collar studded with clear gems. "I had it made just for you, Sherlock. Now be a good boy and lift your head so Master can give you your present."  
>Sherlock didn't move. The hand that had been lightly caressing his neck moved lower, tensing, manicured nails raking over his collarbone.<br>"Come on, Sherlock, don't be stubborn."

The detective still didn't move, but he sucked in a breath when Moriarty's nails sank into the soft skin under his collarbones. The sharp sting made his head drop back, and in a move too fast to follow the collar was buckled about his neck and pulled tight. The buckle was cold against his pulse and the thing restricted his breathing slightly.

"There, isn't that pretty? It looks so nice against your white skin." A fingertip traced the collar and Sherlock shuddered. "Now be a good pet, or Master will make this tighter... There's a good boy." The detective closed his eyes to keep from wincing as sudden hot breath ghosted around the shell of his ear, and teeth nipped rather un-gently on the now pink area.

Moriarty gave the collar a rough yank and this time it made Sherlock choke. "It feels nice doesn't it, precious?" When the pressure let up just a little bit, Sherlock took in a gasping breath and was pulled to his knees. "Lean forward for me, Sherlock…" The detective instead took more breaths, trying not to concentrate on the pain.

"…Jo-John…" Sherlock's voice was strained and weak

"Oh, you want your little shadow, do you, pet?" Moriarty dragged his nails down Sherlock's back and drew a moan of pain from his mouth as he fell forward. Moriarty pulled down his own trousers and leaned forward, whispering into his ear. "I shall grant you your wish." Sherlock's phone was on the floor beside them. Reaching down and pulling the decorated collar as he did so, Moriarty placed the phone in front of Sherlock.

"We'll just wait a moment before we call him. There are a few things we need to set straight, my love." Moriarty smirked and removed his underwear.

* * *

><p>John's night was agonizingly slow. He may have been sharing a room with James, but the driver wasn't the most talkative of company. Not that John really wanted company; he would have much preferred being by himself so he could cry in private. He did cry though, sometime in the night. Whether or not James heard it, the driver decided not to let on. Still, John wasn't in the right place to complain. Mycroft was doing all he could to rescue Sherlock and had at least two pairs of eyes on the criminal's mansion at all times.<p>

He fell asleep well after James did, at around midnight. It was only a three hour sleep but it was the best John was going to get for a while. The only light source in the room throughout the night was from the hallway light, which shone through the crack under the door and made only basic shapes and outlines visible. The brocade pattern lining the wallpaper was virtually blurred into the wall itself. Despite the presence of James in the bed across from him, John felt very alone and slightly scared.

When the morning light finally broke through the thin nylon curtains, James woke up. The driver sat up and stretched, flicking the curtain back to peer outside. He swung his legs out of bed and yawned.

"Good-morning." he said, seeing John lying on top of the covers in thought. "Did you sleep well?"

"Not really, but thanks." John sighed and slipped his body back under the covers. "I'm going to try and catch another few hours if I can. Can you tell Mycroft not to order me breakfast?"

"Of course I can, Mr. Watson." James took an armful of clothes from his weekend bag and headed for the bathroom to change.

"You can call me John." With that, John rolled over and buried his head beneath the covers to try and sleep. It was still early yet…

A few hours later, John's eyes fluttered open. He had finally managed to fall asleep for an hour. Hauling himself from the bed, John got dressed and checked his phone. He half expected to see a text from Sherlock, telling him everything was alright. It wasn't a text that came though, though… It was a phonecall.

At first John didn't know whether it was an optical illusion or just his mind re-arranging words into what he wanted to see. But it wasn't; it was the real thing. His fingers shook as he pressed the answer button and raised the phone to his ear. There was a moment of silence, for John was too afraid to speak. And then there was a sharp groan that could only have been from Sherlock.

"Sherlock…" John blinked and had to sit down on the edge of the bed. He was answered with some muffled whispering and another groan.

"John, please d-don't come for me. Find someone else to hold your leash… Because I'm on Moriarty's now…" John was stunned, mouth opening and closing like a fish. His free hand twisted itself into the bed-sheets. A soft chuckle could be heard in the background before the phone was picked up and another voice greeted John.

"You heard him. Sherlock doesn't want you anymore John, he's _my _pet now. Just give up." A very loud, very satisfied groan rang through the phone alongside pained whimpering. John sucked in a breath angrily and was about to snap back when the phone went dead. That was it, that's what got John's blood boiling. In a rage, he put on some shoes and rooted around his bag until his hand found what he was searching for; his gun. Slipping it under his shirt and into the waistband of his jeans, John all but sprinted down the stairs and into the entrance foyer,

"Doctor Watson?" Anthea was sitting on a cream couch when John came down, raising an eyebrow at him.

"Where are Mycroft and Lestrade?" John looked around for the two men before his attention was returned to Anthea.

"In that dining hall over there." She pointed the hand with her blackberry towards large double doors to the left. "They were having breakfast last time I checked. Do you want me to call- Doctor Watson?" John ran to the left before she could finish and barged into the dining hall.

Mycroft and Lestrade had been sitting across from eachother by a square oak table. Their hands were _almost _touching in the middle and their heads were bent forward as if in deep conversation. When John burst through they separated, Mycroft patting down the front of his suit and Lestrade clearing his throat. The look on John's face distracted them both from their "almost caught" act.

"John?" Mycroft stood up and tilted his head. "What's the matter?" The DI had brought _Anderson _of all people with him, but the sulky forensics investigator wasn't present at that moment, thankfully.

"We have to get Sherlock! We have to get him _now!"_ John ranted and took out his phone. "Moriarty called me and then there were noises and then Sherlock telling me not to come look for him and before I could say anything that bastard took the phone up and-"John had to take a deep breath, "-he said that Sherlock was_ his_ pet now!" Throughout that angry venting, Lestrade had walked over to John and took him by the shoulders.

"Calm down, John! Take a breath and we can talk this out rationally-"

"There is no rationally! Sherlock is being abused by that bastard and I'm not standing for it!" John shook off Lestrade and walked over to Mycroft. "I have my gun, can we not take a risk?"

"John-"Mycroft's voice was one of hesitation, as if he were going to suggest something like Lestrade had.

"Fine!" John threw his arms angrily into the air, feeling hot tears prick behind his eyes. "If you're not going to help I'm going myself!" With that he turned on his heels and ran back out the way he came. He was followed by the two men halfway up the stairs and Lestrade took him by the wrists.

"John!" Mycroft held his umbrella in front of the doctor so he couldn't move any further. "Relax! We all want Sherlock back but in order to help him we need to know what exactly was said, devise a _sensible _plan and then decide what our course of action will be." In that time, John had taken a deep breath and nodded, rubbing his eyes. Mycroft's sense of power along with his calm tone of voice seemed to calm John down too.

"Right… Right." He sighed and walked back a step. "But we need to hurry." He looked between the two men and they nodded. Lestrade let go of his wrists and walked back down. Mycroft patted his shoulder and led John back into the dining area. He whispered something to the manager and received a nod. The other diners that were eating breakfast were ushered out so the three men could talk in private.

**Hope you liked it! Reviews make me happy so drop a line and let me know your thoughts on this chapter.**


	12. Rated M

**Once again, major thanks to Sam for helping me with this. Yes, we are twisted. **

**Warnings: Contains slash and scenes of torture; dark scenes ahead.**

**Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to the BBC. I only own this plot.**

* * *

><p>Sherlock lay naked on his stomach on the silk bed. He was shuddering, whimpering softly, and feeling utterly broken. His hands had been let loose of their ties for a while and the tight collar taken off. But the detective hadn't even the strength to lift them. Instead they lay limp in front of his head, just by his messy, damp curls. There was a dull throb of pain around his back and hips and to move around was utter torture. Sleep wasn't an option; every time he closed his eyes and seemed about to doze off, visions of Moriarty flashed through like a bolt of lightning and brought him back to consciousness. Once again the familiar creak of a chair behind him made Moriarty's presence known.<p>

"I think we should re-tie those hands of yours, eh my pet?" Moriarty cooed, slipping onto the bed and tracing his fingers on the fresher whip lines. "Who knows what sudden strength could be pulled from you for my next act." Standing up, the criminal moved to the other side of the room and rooted around an intricately designed jewellery box.

Sherlock took a breath and raised his head. Through his eyes (which were like razor slits) he could see a brief glint from something sharp in Moriarty's fingers. On his way back, he picked up the silk scarves and dropped them beside Sherlock.

"Do them yourself, pet. I want to see you struggle." With an evil smirk, Moriarty dropped down onto the bed. When Sherlock did nothing, Moriarty dragged the sharp object in his hands across Sherlock's lower back. _Needle, _Sherlock thought. Taking a few sharp breaths, the detective used all the strength he had – which was very little – to drag his arms towards his body, rest on his forearms and pull himself up. It took at least three tries before he could sit up and onto his knees, at which point he had to concentrate to keep from falling over.

"S-Scarf-"A wheeze from Sherlock. He had been reduced to following the psychopaths every orders. Moriarty sighed and plucked the scarves from the sheets to drop them in Sherlock's pale hands. It was hard and daunting, but eventually the detective managed, using his fingers and teeth, to tie the scarves around his wrists and pull them into a knot. Not tight enough, though and Sherlock groaned when Moriarty yanked his hands forward and pulled the scarves into tight, double overhand knots.

It hurt, but not as much as when Sherlock was pushed down again with Moriarty straddling his back. The friction of the man's trousers against his raw back made Sherlock bite down on the sheets below him and close his eyes. "Shhh… Just relax, precious." Moriarty's fingers stroked Sherlock's right shoulder blade, dancing over the patch of skin which was surprisingly untouched. His nails began to lightly trace an M pattern, like a plastic surgeon would mark the parts of the body to cut along.

Picking up the needle, Moriarty moistened its sharp tip by licking his fingers and plucking it. Once again his fingers brushed over Sherlock's right shoulder blade, more delicately this time. When the tip pressed onto the smooth skin the first time, Sherlock had to keep from crying out. It pierced the skin and dragged down. Tears pricked in Sherlock's eyes and streamed down his cheeks. He wanted this torture to end; he wanted John to cling to and tell him he loved him. When the branding of M was seemingly done, Sherlock allowed himself to let out a deep groan.

The needle eventually withdrew from his skin and the surprisingly heavy body straddling his aching hips lifted away. Sherlock pressed his cheek into the pillow beneath his head, thankful that it was over. He thought, for a split second, that he would be allowed to rest now. He'd been marked and claimed; bites littered his neck, his back was criss-crossed with whip lashes, and now the **M** on his shoulderblade.  
>But apparently that was not enough for the psychopath. The scarves around his wrists were long, and the ends hung loose from the knots he'd tied. The detective had allowed himself to drift a bit, but a savage tug on his bindings made him cry out and snap to attention.<p>

Moriarty bound his hands to the slats of the headboard, tying them neatly into another naval knot. "Now, precious, it's time to leave a real claim on you." He spoke close to Sherlock's ear again. He'd taken time to shave; what brushed against the detective's ear was smooth again. "I know your faithful little watchdog is going to come for you, and this," his hand fell on the **M** he'd carved into Sherlock's shoulder, "just isn't enough. This isn't going to last, not with Rover's medical care. I need to leave something that _everyone_will see on you."

Moriarty withdrew again. Sherlock hadn't the strength to turn his head and watch, but he did have the strength to cock his ears and listen. Something was plugged into a wall socket, something let out a low electrical hum, and Moriarty's weight settled on his aching back and hips again. "Do try not to writhe about, precious. I'd hate to see a masterpiece ruined because of a careless canvas."

Something touched Sherlock's shoulder. There was a split instant of intense cold, like dry ice, quickly followed by the most intense heat Sherlock had ever felt. And with it came pain, strong enough that he couldn't cry out. And, just like that, Sherlock was utterly lost to it.

* * *

><p>"I'm going to show you both something." Mycroft raised his umbrella and showed it to John and Lestrade, who were sitting on the table. Lestrade was the first to raise an eyebrow when Mycroft said nothing more.<p>

"…Your umbrella? But you have about seven of those in- Never mind." The DI coughed. "What's the significance?" He almost gave away the fact he had been in either Mycroft's office or his house more than once, and the elder Holmes brother caught his eye for a mere few seconds. John didn't seem to notice though; all his thoughts were on Sherlock and the rescue plan.

"This isn't an umbrella." He caught the handle and pulled, revealing a long, steel sword and leaving the umbrella part behind. The sudden gasp from John made Mycroft smirk. Lestrade tilted his head and his brows knitted together; just how many of Mycroft's umbrellas were weapons in disguise?

"A… sword? Why is it a sword?" John shook his head. "No, don't answer that. At least we have an extra weapon."

"I have my gun too and Anderson will back us up if necessary." Lestrade hopped down from the table and went to have another look at Mycroft's sword, taking it up and running his finger along the blade. Thankfully, the lighting in the dining room concealed the colouring on Mycroft's cheeks well.

"So when are we going?" John put his gun back into the waistband of his jeans, looking to Mycroft expectantly.

"In a few hours, John. We need to wait for the signal from my look-outs. The guards take a twenty minute break around five in the evening and it only takes fifteen minutes to get there." Mycroft sheathed his sword-umbrella and looked back to John. "That gives us time for some lunch and then you can relax for a while before we make our way there."

"I don't know if I _can _relax." John sighed and rolled his neck, hearing a satisfying click.

"Try. We're all going to need our strength for tonight. There's a strong chance we might have to put up a fight. Come on, let's get some lunch." John had to smile when he thought of how Sherlock would never eat before a case. Mycroft made sure the blade was secured before propping his umbrella beside the table and moving to the double doors.

He muttered something to a waiter who was standing outside and Anthea came in along with James and Anderson. The sulky man himself didn't look all too pleased to be rescuing the "insufferable freak". It took a lot of John's willpower to not hit Anderson and so Mycroft made sure they sat as far away from each other as possible. Lestrade had warned him before arriving to keep his mouth shut and his guard high. Then again, if Anderson did truly hate Sherlock, he wouldn't have come along. It was obvious that beneath all that venom there was a caring side.

They ordered food, Mycroft with his usual plus another cup of green tea. It was only to be assumed that he was willing to give the green tea in this part of the country another chance. John just copied Lestrade and ordered a burger. When their order arrived several minutes later, the doctor could only push the food around his plate and take a few bites. He stood up before the rest were finished and excused himself to his room. He needed a shower and time to relax as much as he could.

"Meet us in the main foyer at five, everyone. James, you'll pass the message onto John won't you?" Mycroft winked and James nodded. Anthea followed swiftly, tugging Anderson along with her; both she and James knew the look from Mycroft that meant he wanted to be alone. This time it was with the DI. Lestrade stood up and rested against the edge of the table. It was rare that he got to be alone with the elder Holmes brother lately.

"We have a few hours and we know the main gist of our plan, so..." Mycroft locked the door and walked over to his secret lover. His hands found themselves on the DI's knees and he was given that special smile from Lestrade that was just for him. "I think we can take this time just for ourselves. Before things get hard." His hands slid up Lestrade's thighs, slowly caressing them.

"Well, I think that's a very good idea." Lestrade chuckled and hopped up onto the tabletop, allowing Mycroft to shuffle forward between his legs and wrap his arms around the DI's waist. He sighed and leaned his head forward to kiss Lestrade gently. He was awarded with a smile, Lestrade's hands settling on the elder Holmes brother's hips.

"I wish I got to see you more often." Lestrade sighed and leaned back to look at Mycroft. "Unfortunately both our jobs make that difficult."

"Mine more so than yours is what you mean, am I right?"

"No, I didn't mean it like-"

"Greg. It's fine. I know how it must be, but I promise I'll try my best to make more time for us. _Just _us." Mycroft smiled and kissed Lestrade once more before letting go. "Come on, let's go for a walk."

Lestrade could only smile and follow Mycroft out the door. Neither of them held hands; it was too risky and too soon.

* * *

><p>Sherlock lay very, very still on top of the sheets. His shoulder throbbed and burned and the skin felt hot and tight. Moriarty had gone again, and not just to sit in the chair beside the bed. Really gone this time, leaving Sherlock in the room alone and aching. Alone, aching, and branded... Moriarty had laid a deep burn, enough to blacken and crisp the skin, over the needle-traced <strong>M<strong> on the back of his shoulder.  
>And that mark... No matter what John did for him... That mark was never going to be erased.<p>

"John..."

* * *

><p><strong>Hope that didn't sink too deep.<strong>

**Review replies:**

**XMillieX – Thank you, I do try my best and I have great help.**

**Scribblez – I think we all are :P**

**Stacy – Glad you liked it.**

**Shimjin – Don't know what that means but yay!**


	13. Fear In The Eyes of Love

**Thanks for reading, guys! And thanks to Sam who corrected my sleep-addled brain's "funky verb tenses"**

** That's the last time I write a chapter at half past three in the morning I think!**

**Warnings: Contains slash. **

**Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to the BBC. I only own this plot.**

* * *

><p>As John made his way to Mycroft's awaiting black car. He could feel the nerves starting to gnaw away at his gut; one of many feelings he had been experiencing all day. In the past few hours, John had taken a shower, changed his clothes and lay down with Sherlock's scarf. Trying to fill the time while his brain was thinking a thousand thoughts a minute was hell. John didn't sleep, and he certainly hadn't been relaxing.<p>

He had taken Sherlock's long coat with him to the car; Sherlock would need his coat. Presuming they found Sherlock in any state to put the coat on... No, John wouldn't let himself think about that. They were going to find Sherlock. He was going to be alright. As the car pulled away from the hotel, Mycroft briefed his companions about the plan.

"Alright, gentlemen. Lestrade and I will take the front and search for security. Anderson, you stay by the gate and take down any of the guards who try to escape. John, you go find a way in. I'm sure there's an open window somewhere. But be careful. Lestrade and I will follow you when the coast is clear."

Anderson scowled, but when Lestrade elbowed him sharply in the side he muttered his agreement. John nodded and looked to the other three men briefly before looking out the window at the passing countryside.

What seemed like ages later, John could see the mansion and its four high guard walls come into view. The tops of the walls, at least so far as John could see from this distance, were empty of guards. Obviously Moriarty wasn't concerned about them turning up. And partly for good reason, John thought, sparing a look for the other three men stuffed into the back of Mycroft's car. They were hardly an elite military force...

"Just here James." Mycroft called. He tapped his umbrella on the floor between his feet and waited for the car to come to a stop. From where they were sitting, the gate looked to be unguarded, just like the walls. John was the first out of the car, of course, checking his gun where he'd tucked it into his waistband. Mycroft and Lestrade were only a little behind him. Anderson brought up the rear, still scowling and brushing himself down as though he expected he'd picked up some dust from the immaculate interior of Mycroft's state-appointed car.

"John." Mycroft touched his elbow briefly, making John start slightly and turn to look at him. The elder Holmes brother held out his little brother's coat, which John had left in the backseat of the car. "Don't forget this." John took the coat with a curt nod before starting for the house. Once inside the gates (which had been carelessly left open, as though they were expected), John set off on his own.

There were few windows on the ground floor, and the few ones that John could find were all either closed or too small to climb through. There were no doors other than the main one, either, so that option was out. At the very rear of the house, he did manage to find a ragged-looking trellis that had once had climbing roses on it, by the look of it. A few sharp tugs showed that it would probably hold John's weight. Checking the gun in the back of his waistband, he threw Sherlock's coat over his shoulder, wiped his suddenly damp palms on the thighs of his jeans, and set about climbing the trellis. Despite a few alarming creaks and one near-fall, he made it up to a second story window without further incidence.

Hauling himself through that window proved to be much more difficult than he would have liked. He had to throw Sherlock's coat in ahead of him, and by the time he was over the sill and on the floor on the other side he was panting and his shoulder was aching sharply. He lay still for a moment, listening to see if anyone had heard him come in. There were no running footsteps or yelling goons, so John had to assume he wasn't heard.

Once he'd picked himself up off the floor, checked that his gun was still in his waistband, and gathered up Sherlock's coat, he trotted off into the depths of the house. Even his steps echoed around the hallways, despite the fact that he was wearing light running shoes and trying to be quiet.

The vast majority of the house seemed dark. Lights occasionally appeared under doors, but each knob John tried was firmly locked. It was frustrating and slow, made more so by the fact that he knew that Sherlock, _his_Sherlock, was still held captive somewhere in this house.

John went up a floor during his search. There were no doors on this hallway, but there was an arch at the other end with light spilling out onto the pale tiles of the hallway. What lay on the other side couldn't be good, he knew. Not when the rest of the house was empty and dark. Something told John that Sherlock was on the other side of that doorway. And he hoped it was only Sherlock. He didn't know that he'd be able to stop himself from killing Moriarty outright if he saw him.

His fears of seeing the psychopath were confirmed. He had been slowly making his way towards the arch, each step feeling like a mile, and when he finally reached the source of light John paused. Moriarty was sitting at the end of a silk sheet draped bed, twirling a gun around his hands and smiling smugly at John. Behind him, John could make out a lanky shape covered to the hips in a white sheet and bare above it. _Sherlock. _Not only was Sherlock lying on the bed – he was… Marked… _Claimed. _He looked absolutely beaten, a broken shell of his formerly proud self. His back was cut deep with lines and bruises, and his neck and shoulders were littered with small red bites. His eyes looked as if they hadn't been let rest for weeks and his lips were chapped. His lanky frame seemed skinnier than usual, and there on the back of his shoulder was the crisp, burned **M**that Moriarty had left on him. The brand, more than anything else, sent a chill of fear and disgust right through John's heart. The other wounds were largely superficial and would heal without a scar. But that...

The doctor stood in stunned silence for an achingly long, eyes flicking between his love; his_life_, and Moriarty who was the only thing separating the couple. Sherlock looked to be out cold for the time being. Either that or he was being very, very quiet.

"How nice of you to finally turn up, Rover. I've been expecting your arrival for the past while now." Moriarty sighed dramatically and the gun settled itself in his left hand. John could only stare at him, a mixture of emotions brewing in the pit of his stomach. He had to ball his hand into a fist to keep the tic from causing it to shake and keep himself from leaping at the consulting criminal. But John was a military man; he knew better than to tackle down an armed man. Especially someone as unstable as Jim Moriarty.

When he opened his mouth to speak, Moriarty cut in.

"If you threaten me, John, I will shoot him." His eyes glanced briefly back at Sherlock and then back to John. His left hand gestured as well, just a short movement that brought the barrel of the gun into perfect line with Sherlock's chest. John was far more concerned about Sherlock's life than his own, so to come this far only for things to end up in disaster was too much of a risk.

"…Why are you doing this?" John asked. He tried to keep his voice down; tried to keep his eyes away from the scars on his lover's back and keep calm. It was a hard thing to do. "Why can't I just have him back?"

"Johnny, Johnny, Johnny." Moriarty snickered and shook his head. "Do you have ears or have you lost your memory? I _said _I would burn the heart out of Sherlock. Seeing you like this just confirms I've won." Moriarty shifted on the bed so he was almost leaning over Sherlock and gestured to his shoulderblade. "Have you seen the proof? Sherlock is mine now. He always will be. Isn't that right, pet…?"

John's hands clenched tighter at his sides. Sherlock had stirred softly at the sound of Moriarty's voice, whimpering as the wounds on his back pulled tight and pained him. The whimper drew Moriarty's attention and John was momentarily forgotten as the psychopath moved to soothe Sherlock. Speaking softly, so softly John couldn't hear, he reached out his finger and tucked a stray curl behind Sherlock's ear, trailing that finger down Sherlock's jawline and over his lips. That was something only John did; something only _John _was _allowed _to do. To have this sick psychopath touching his Sherlock… It was really the last straw. John's anger finally bubbled over and he snapped.

"You _bastard!" _John lunged forward, gun forgotten, and knocked Moriarty away from Sherlock, tackling him to the floor by the bed and pinning him down. Luckily for John, Moriarty's pistol had flown out of his hand, putting John in the lead and leaving the criminal vulnerable. John didn't waste any time and before Moriarty could even begin to properly fight back, he was punched square in the jaw. John knew his combat and he knew how a good hard punch could leave a man out cold. And that is exactly what John managed to do.

There was blood on his knuckles from Moriarty's nose and John wiped it on his jeans. Climbing off the psychopath, John had to give himself a few seconds to catch his breath and calm down. Moriarty was out cold, at least for the moment, sprawled on his own bedroom floor with blood running from his nose and split lip. He moved over to Sherlock and sat down on the edge of the bed, still not believing that he'd actually won. Sherlock was his again and they would all go back to normal. At least, that's how things ended in films.

"Sherlock… Sherlock, wake up." The detective's face screwed up just a little before softening again and slowly opening his eyes. "I'm back. I've come for you."

Sherlock shakily reached out a hand. But not to John. That hand seemed to be intended for the one who had been sitting on the end of the bed not two minutes ago.

"Master-" Sherlock whispered, hand grabbing at air. John caught his thin wrists and tried to rouse his lover to recognise him by calling his name. Nothing... It was like Sherlock had no idea he was even there. After a second, when Sherlock seemed to notice him for the first time his eyes widened. Not in surprise, but in fear. Sherlock was afraid of John and he had to get away.

The sudden twist and struggle startled John, his grip loosening as Sherlock tried to take his wrists back. He had expected a heartfelt reunion, for Sherlock to fall into his arms so he could take him home. But there had been no recognition in Sherlock's silver eyes, only a painful wash of fear and loathing.

Heartbeat rising in panic, Sherlock jerked his body upwards and twisted his wrists out of John's grasp. But he twisted the wrong way, and the fresh brand on his shoulderblade tightened and sent a wave of pain through his body. Letting out a weak, pained cry, the detective fell back down onto the bed and once more slipped into unconsciousness.

* * *

><p><strong>Will be updated soon. Please leave a review and let me know what you think. *More virtual high-fives*<strong>


	14. Don't Leave Me Again

**Here it is, chapter 14. You can breathe a sigh of relief my dearies.**

**Warning: Angst and slash.**

**Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to the BBC. I only own this plot.**

* * *

><p>It was obvious that some guards had been killed, seeing as both Mycroft and Lestrade were dishevelled and Mycroft's normally perfect suit had been knocked askew. Despite that, Mycroft's umbrella-blade was almost spotless and Lestrade had only a couple bits of burnt powder on his hands. And, being a Holmes, he had perfect timing as always. The two of them came charging up the stairs just as Sherlock blacked out again, just in time to see a stricken-looking John stooping over the unconscious detective.<p>

"John!" Mycroft dropped his weapon and ran to the bed, almost reaching out to touch Sherlock until John practically _growled_at him. "It's alright. I won't hurt him, John. He's my little brother."

After a moment John un-tensed a little and nodded, picking up Sherlock's coat from where it laid on the floor. He pulled the white sheet back and let it drift to the floor. It took a bit of rearranging, but John managed to wrap up the insensible detective in his long coat and gather him up into his arms. Sherlock moaned and squirmed as his back was touched, but he didn't wake. If John thought rearranging the detective to wrap him into his coat was difficult, it was nothing compared to getting him down the stairs and out of the house. Sherlock was very tall, and while he was not particularly heavy it was remarkably difficult to manoeuvre him down the stairs.

Seeing his little brother's broken state and John's level of distress made Mycroft more determined than ever to get them out of there. Lestrade helped John by gently taking Sherlock's feet so they wouldn't hit the ground as they made their way to the car. John merely glanced at the dead guards around them; in all honesty he didn't give two shits about them. He only cared for having his lover back in his arms. Looking down at Sherlock's face, which held an uncomfortable expression, made John's heart twist. How dare Moriarty do this to _his _Sherlock.

"I have half a mind to go back there and shoot that bastard." John growled as he slid into the car and laid Sherlock across his lap, taking up a full two seats (though his knees were bent to fit the width of the car.) Mycroft sat in across from them followed by Lestrade, who gave James an order to drive back to the hotel.

"So do I, John. But Sherlock's safety comes first." Mycroft sighed and looked over at his unconscious brother. He looked so _small _and weak in the doctor's arms.

"You did knock him a good one, though." Lestrade chipped in with a half smile. Mycroft's hand, which was hidden from John's view, slid silently over to Lestrade's and gave it a quick squeeze in a silent thank you, before retreating back again.

"But he'll be up again soon." John tucked some of Sherlock's hair back from his face and stroked his cheek. "I don't think I'll be able to stop myself if he ever tries this again."

"I can assure you, John, for the foreseeable future you will both be safe. Trust me." Mycroft gave John a re-assuring smile and looked out the window. Sherlock stirred once in John's arms, causing all of them to look over. But that's all it was; a stir, a brief twitching before stillness settled through the detective again. John just held him closer, almost possessively until they reached the hotel.

Once there, they parked around the back to where there was another entrance. "We can't be seen bringing him in the front. It's too risky especially in his current state." Mycroft opened the door and helped John to take Sherlock out. The detective's eyes opened just a fraction when John had him back in his arms bridal style. He mumbled something incoherent and his hand weakly grabbed the front of John's shirt for a second before falling limp again.

"Sherlock…" John held him closer until he was in the door and up the first flight of stairs. That little stirring seemed to be a good since, since Sherlock had actually grabbed onto him instead of panicking.

"It looks like he's coming back around. Take him to bed and maybe clean up a few of those wounds." Mycroft looked at Lestrade and gestured for the DI to follow. "Greg and I are going to retire for the night."

"What if I hurt him by mistake?" John licked his now dry lips nervously, having little faith in himself.

"You could never hurt him, John. And we're right down the hall if you need us." Mycroft put a hand on John's shoulder and gave it a little squeeze. "You're his doctor after-all." With that, both he and Lestrade continued up the stairs. Somehow John managed to get the door of his hotel room open enough to get them both inside, and he laid Sherlock down gently on one of the queen-sized beds before closing it behind him. Even wrapped up in his coat, the detective still looked so fragile, and John was almost afraid to touch him.

He finally summoned up the courage to go over and gently unwrap the coat and lay it aside. The little go-bag he'd packed had a change of clothes for Sherlock, but with his lover in such a state he didn't want to imagine how much pain just dressing Sherlock would cause. Instead, he went over his lover's wounds as gently as he could, silently cataloguing each one away in the back of his mind.

The brand on his shoulder was obviously the worst. John tried not to touch it, but he had to run a finger along the swollen edge of it anyway. It wasn't infected, thankfully, but the fact that it was a burn meant that the skin around the blackened letter was puffy and hot to the touch. It was obviously very painful as well, since Sherlock whimpered and stirred lightly under John's hand. Almost automatically, his other hand smoothed down Sherlock's tousled curls and the detective quieted again. He left the burn alone for now and moved on, following the lines that the whip had left when it bit into his lover's pale flesh. Those were mostly shallow and already scabbed over, except where they had broken open when they moved Sherlock back to the hotel. They'd heal over with no difficulties, John thought, along with the bruises where the whip hadn't broken the skin and the red bites littering Sherlock's neck and collarbone.

John straightened up to leave the bed for a moment and get a washcloth when a pale hand closed on his wrist. John started violently, nearly pulling his wrist away on instinct. Sherlock's eyes were open and there was no fear there. He didn't speak, but the tip of his tongue darted out to wet his lips. John could have burst into tears, he was so relieved. "It's alright, Sherlock," he breathed out, gently stroking a hand over his lover's tousled curls. "I'm going to go get a washcloth to clean your back and a glass of water for you to drink."

After a long moment, Sherlock nodded and let go of John's wrist. In seconds the former army doctor had fetched a warm damp washcloth and a glass of water. The last went into the detective's outstretched and silently pleading hand. "Drink that, love. You'll feel better, alright?"

Sherlock stayed lying on his stomach, sipping slowly from the glass of water, as John gently dabbed at the lashes on his back and the small specks of blood adorning his inner thighs. The detective was pliant and calm under John's hands and he didn't make a sound when the washcloth was laid over the brand to cool the hot and swollen skin. In fact, he hadn't made a sound while he'd been tended to. And that, John knew, couldn't be a good sign.

"Sherlock..." He knelt down on the floor beside the bed, gently taking the now-empty glass from his lover's fingers and setting it on the nightstand. "Sherlock, talk to me. I'm speaking from experience when I say that bottling all this up isn't good for you. It's not healthy." Slowly, to keep from startling the younger man, he brushed a stray curl off his forehead. "Say something, Sherlock, please."

Sherlock wet his lips again, glanced down at his hands, and slowly reached out to twine his fingers with John's. "Don't leave me again," he whispered, barely able to make the words come. "Don't let him take me away again, John, please..."

"Oh, Sherlock... It's alright, love, I'm here. You're safe now." The detective bowed his head and rested his cheek against their joined fingers. A tremor ran down through him and he made a soft, strangled noise that wrenched at John's heart. "You're okay, Sherlock..." He carded a hand through his lover's tousled curls, trying to soothe him as he shivered. "It's okay, I'm here Sherlock."

Slowly, the detective's shivering eased a bit and he lifted his head, silently pleading with John. Wincing a bit, since he'd been sitting in the same position on the floor for quite a while, he levered himself off the floor and sat on the bed with his back against the headboard. Sherlock shifted over and laid his cheek against John's thigh, one long-fingered hand clutching at his lover's pant leg. His eyes closed again and he seemed to relax, soothed by John's nearness and the warmth of him.

The former army doctor, on the other hand, could only sit there tense and worried. Sherlock was broken, clearly. The doctor had never seen anyone in this state before, let alone someone with a great mind like Sherlock's. And John... He frankly didn't know if he could fix him.

* * *

><p><strong>Cute and angsty, no?<strong>

**Review and whatnot. **


	15. Wie Du Sagst, Mon Cherie

**Some Mystrade to lighten things up. And we all love a bit of Mystrade.**

**Dominant!Mycroft**

**Warnings: Contains slash. **

**Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to the BBC. I only own this plot.**

* * *

><p>Mycroft closed the hotel room door with a sigh and leaned his forehead against it. He was clearly shaken after what happened, but there was also a hint of relief on his face. He didn't look as impeccable as he usually did; his suit was askew, hair sticking up ever so slightly and his umbrella tie pulled loose.<p>

"God, Greg. I'm getting too old for this." The elder Holmes brother peeled away from the door and slumped onto his bed, rubbing his face with dainty hands.

"Nonsense. You were brilliant tonight." Lestrade took off his jacket and switched on the small cable T.V before settling onto the bed beside Mycroft. "And look at the bright side – Sherlock has John looking after him."

"True. That doctor really changed my brother in the best of ways. You're right, I should stop worrying. It's just… he's my baby brother you know? It was always my responsibility to look after him. I even made a promise to Mummy." Mycroft heaved a sigh and let his body go slack on the bed.

"I know, Mycroft. You're a wonderful brother, but you trust John with Sherlock's life don't you? He's saved him more than once." Mycroft offered Lestrade a smile and kissed his forehead. The DI tried not to sigh because it was always this way; stolen kisses in their offices, sneaky hand holding in Mycroft's car or little pleasures on the very rare occasion.

Reaching over to his weekend-bag, the DI pulled out a tube of hand cream and began to rub a pea-sized amount onto his calloused hands. Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

"Hand cream?" He took a little sniff. "_Scented _hand cream! Greg, you're not turning into a woman on me are you?" Lestrade snorted and put the tube away, still rubbing the coconut scented cream into his hands.

"I have delicate skin. My hands go through the wars if they're not kept moisturized." He turned to face Mycroft. "Problem dear?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes and prodded Lestrade playfully before switching the T.V channel to a murder-most-foul FBI case. Lestrade groaned and snatched the remote out of his lover's hands. "No. I've seen enough murder cases to last me a lifetime. How about something a bit mellower?"

"What, a programme about animal clinics or sunset romances?" Mycroft snorted when the former actually_ did_ appear on screen. Not that he really cared what they watched; he was too worn from the night's events that _Barney _the bloody dinosaur would cheer him up at the present time.

About fifteen minutes into the programme Lestrade got bored. They had been holding hands on the bed, fingers entwined and giving little squeezes every now and again. Without warning, Lestrade rolled over, took Mycroft's other hand and pinned the elder Holmes brother to the bed as he straddled him.

"Wha- Well that was unexpected, Gregory. A bit wired tonight are we?" Mycroft looked surprised but smirked anyway. He was answered with a soft kiss, tongues dancing and the DI's body pushing at dangerous proximity against his own.

"Mycroft…" Lestrade broke the kiss and just stared down at Mycroft before pulling back altogether and resuming his previous position. "Sorry, I was being hasty."

"Sorry? Why are you sorry?" Mycroft had now pushed himself onto his elbows to look over at Lestrade, who seemed to be blushing. It looked rather… handsome on the DI's cheeks. "I certainly wouldn't be sorry…" Mycroft leaned over and his hand started to undo the first few buttons of Lestrade's shirt.

The DI smiled and sat up, undoing the rest of his buttons by himself. Mycroft did the same and soon enough both shirts were tossed somewhere across the room. Mycroft reached out and gave Lestrade a kiss, shifting so he was pushed right next to him.

"W-wait. Who's going to be on top?" Lestrade sat up for a second and tried to establish dominance by once again leaning over Mycroft. "I am a man of power after all."

Mycroft chuckled and his legs moved to wrap around Lestrade's waist. He had incredible strength and in a matter of seconds Lestrade was being pinned down. "Oh, but not as much as I do, detective inspector." Smirking, he let his hand trail down the DI's chest and to his belt. That was swiftly removed, followed by Mycroft's and those were kicked off the side of the bed. The elder Holmes hand slipped into his lover's underwear to tease the growing length beneath. Lestrade let out a breath at the feel of those dainty hands around him.

"Oh, god." Lestrade let his eyes close when Mycroft began to stroke upwards. That proved to be hard the less space there was, so Lestrade's maroon coloured underwear was quickly yanked off and thrown carelessly to god knows where in the hotel room. Mycroft resumed his stroking, slow and firm around Lestrade's length.

When Lestrade tipped his head back, Mycroft took that chance to attack his neck. Lestrade let out a deep, relieved moan, shuddering and trying not to arch his back. The elder Holmes brother chuckled into Lestrade's neck, not letting his strokes speed up even with the DI shuddering under him. His fingers eventually loosened and he let his hand drift away, ghosting up his lover's chest.

"Well, this isn't going to go anywhere very quickly. Where did you put that hand cream you had, Gregory? I'll admit I wasn't expecting things to take this turn when I came looking for Sherlock, so I haven't packed anything."

"On the… The locker." Lestrade took a breath and reached over. That gave Mycroft enough time to rid himself of underwear and wait patiently for the hand cream. He received it with a wink to Lestrade and squeezed a generous amount onto his fingers. His free hand trailed up Lestrade's inner thigh, caressing the skin. The hand cream was sort of cold, and so when Mycroft teased the taut ring of muscle with his forefinger, the DI gasped.

Chuckling, Mycroft pressed his finger forward slowly, being encased by glorious tight heat. It was hard to move around, but eventually he found enough space to push slowly in and out. "Goodness Greg. You're tighter than I realised."

"Well what do- Oh! - You expect? I don't go round... Ngh… shagging every night of the week."

"I should certainly hope not." Mycroft snorted and added another finger. This time it made Lestrade gasp again and his back arched slightly. Mycroft set about a rhythm; scissoring, pushing, Crooking. It was all making Lestrade moan and groan and writhe under him. "Greg, your leg."

Lestrade took the hint and slung one of his legs over Mycroft's shoulder. That gave Mycroft the perfect angle to crook his fingers _just so_ until he was practically caressing the older male's prostate. Lestrade moaned and arched his back up.

"Jesus, Mycroft! Now!"

"Wie du sagst, mon cherie." Trust a Holmes to start speaking _two _languages at a time like this. And with impeccable accents too. Mycroft removed his fingers and let Lestrade's leg fall back to the bed. He took the hand cream and lathered a generous amount onto his own hard member. Spreading the DI's legs, Mycroft lined himself up.

He pushed in, letting the heat consume him once more. He closed his eyes and settled into a comfortable position. Lestrade could easily tell the difference between two fingers and what was currently inside him now. He let out a sharp breath and tried to relax his body. But his hips betrayed him and rolled up as Mycroft pulled out. They set about a nice steady pace and with every thrust Mycroft made, the DI would make a new noise. It was like music to Mycroft's ears.

As he did one thing to Lestrade, his mouth simply ached to do another. Leaning down, he let his lips and tongue tease his lover's taut nipple. Both those pleasures combined turned Lestrade into a writhing, moaning mess, sounding out the first syllable of Mycroft's name plus a string of four lettered curses.

Perspiration made their skin damp as Mycroft's steady thrusts quickened considerably, and he pulled his lips away from Lestrade's chest. The elder Holmes brother groaned low and deep with every thrust. Lestrade let his legs wrap around Mycroft's hips, lock into place, and switch their positions so he was riding out the younger male. Mycroft landed with a sound of surprise, but he was set quickly back into focus when Lestrade moved his hips around, hands splayed out on the younger man's stomach.

"Greg, I'm not going to last very lon- Ah!-"Mycroft bucked his hips up and his hands grabbed at Lestrade's hips. Whatever movement they made at that particularly point, it pleased both of them to the point of yelling.

"M-Mycroft…" Lestrade's head tipped back and he began to pant, hips rolling forward. "Ngh- Ah!" Lestrade felt Mycroft's nails dig into the skin of his hips and they came at the same time, the elder Holmes brother letting out a cry of his own. The DI could swear he saw stars; it had been so long and it felt so fantastically relieving.

Collapsing onto his lover's chest, Lestrade's eyes closed and he took a minute to get his breath back. Mycroft's hips and back settled fully down on the bed, hands moving to card through Lestrade's silver-grey hair. They stayed like that for a while, listening half minded to the drone of the T.V in the background. Mycroft finally broke the silence.

"We should probably get out of this current position before falling asleep, Greg." With that, he gently rolled the DI off him and removed himself. Lestrade moaned lightly at the loss of Mycroft inside him. Mycroft reached over his lover and reached for an embroidered handkerchief with **M.H **in fanciful golden script. He cleaned the both of them off, tossed the handkerchief aside and pulled the light covers over both of their bodies.

"Turn off the T.V, Mycroft…" Lestrade yawned and snuggled closer to Mycroft. Humming in agreement, the elder Holmes brother turned off the T.V and shimmied down in the bed so he could hold Lestrade. And that's how they fell asleep, dead to the rest of the world except each other.

* * *

><p><strong>Speaking German and French during sex. As you do, naturally. <strong>

**Some fluffy smut to relieve the mood of this fiction. Drop a review if you like.**


	16. Baths and Burn Cream

**Well, here we are: Chapter 16.**

**Warnings: Contains slash. **

**Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to the BBC. I only own this plot.**

* * *

><p>John had been soothing Sherlock for a good while after settling down. His fingers massaged themselves through the detective's dark curls and he could feel Sherlock's grip on his trouser leg loosen slightly as time wore on. John was almost certain Sherlock had cried; there had been the feeling of damp warmth on his lap where Sherlock's head had been. But by the time the doctor wanted to switch his position the damp spot had dried up. He was getting tired in his sitting position and, thinking Sherlock was asleep, shimmied down slowly so he was lying next to his lover. Taking Sherlock's pale hand in his own, the doctor fell asleep.<p>

Sherlock wasn't really asleep. Every time he felt himself drifting off, the sounds of a whip cracking or the feel of hot breath on his ear would jolt him awake. Those things were just John coughing or sighing, louder as he fell asleep. But Sherlock's scarred and sleep addled brain twisted them into the image of Moriarty and he instinctively tightened his hold on John's hand, afraid that if he let go his lover might disappear. _I need this, _Sherlock though, _I need John. _

Dawn was breaking by the time Sherlock had managed to sleep. Instead of finally being able to sleep in peace, Sherlock was twisting and turning the wrong way, so his back was being rubbed off by the sheets. With every painful movement came painful memories; the feeling of being choked, of being violated and used. It was all making him whimper in his sleep, calling out for John. His arm flung in the direction of said man's chest. John woke up the second Sherlock hit his chest. At first, he thought something had happened, that Moriarty came back or that everything he had worked to get back was being taken away again.

"Sherlock…" John sat up and caught Sherlock's wrist gently. "Sherlock love, wake up." The detective's face was twisted in pain; eyes clenched shut and mouth open to moan in fear. John reached out his free hand and placed it gently on Sherlock's cheek. He immediately calmed down and when his eyes opened, they were looking up at John.

"There you are. Nightmare?" John stroked his thumb along Sherlock's cheekbone slowly, feeling the detective relax under his hand. Sherlock nodded slowly and brushed the sheets off his back. Some of the lashes across his back had broken open as he tossed and turned and a few spots of red marked the white hotel sheets.

"I... I need to get the feeling of him off me, John." He still spoke barely above a whisper, his head lowered again to press his cheek against John's shirt. One hand was still clutching gently at his lover's trouser leg, pale fingers tightening as he spoke. "I need a bath, I think."

John smiled somewhat lopsidedly down at the detective and slipped a hand back into his hair. "Alright, love... Why don't you stay here while I run it? Try and keep warm." Gently easing himself off the bed, he pulled the blankets back up over Sherlock a bit, carefully avoiding the brand on his shoulder. The detective obediently laid his head back down and watched as John darted into the bathroom to fill the tub. He sat on the edge of it as he ran the water, occasionally swirling a hand in it to check the temperature. He didn't want one that was too hot and would make Sherlock's injuries swell, but in the detective's ragged state a bath that was too cold might send him into shock. When he was finally satisfied with the water's temperature, he turned off the faucet and went back to fetch Sherlock. He hadn't moved from his spot on the bed, his cheek pressed into the cool sheets. "Sherlock?"

The detective's head came up rather sharply, his eyes wide with fear for a split second. After a moment, he exhaled raggedly and inched toward the edge of the bed. Shaking his head a bit, John padded over and helped his lover up to his feet. Sherlock was still very wobbly on his legs, but with John's help he made it to the bathroom and into the bath without falling. Both he and John did nearly fall into the tub, however, which resulted in some weak and somewhat shaky laughter.

The detective seemed very grateful for the cool bath and settled back into it as much as he could, even letting John wash his hair for him. "Once you get out I'll do something about that shoulder, love. I can get some gauze and tape out of the first aid kit, and I'll see if there's anything like burn cream. I brought you a fresh change of clothes and your coat, too, and if you're hungry I'll send down for some breakfast." He spoke quietly, evenly, the sort of voice he used with particularly fractious or cranky children that came to the clinic for flu shots or yearly checkups. Sherlock made a small noise that John took for agreement and closed his eyes, letting his arms drape loosely over the sides of the tub. "Maybe just some toast and tea, I know your stomach won't be up to much after the past couple days, and I don't want you getting sick on me after all this..."

"John, _do_stop treating me like I'm going to shatter." It was still soft, and Sherlock's voice still sounded like it might give out at any moment, but some of his old spark was there. Not a lot of it, of course. It was still very soon after what had happened with Moriarty, but the fact that there was a bit of spark there made John smile a little.

"Of course, love. Of course." The doctor seemed to take both his job and his love for Sherlock very seriously. There was no hiding the fact that John wasn't going to leave Sherlock's side, and a little niggling in his chest made it clear he _did _feel like Sherlock was going to shatter. But that was John all over; the overprotective, caring lover and the doctor who was going to fix everything and make Sherlock better. John made it his will. "I suppose we better get you out now. That water is running cooler than it should."

John gave Sherlock's arm a pat and stood up to take the nearest available towel. Hotel towels weren't credited for being very big, so when John held it out he knew it would just barely cover the detective's skinny frame. Draping it over his shoulders, John slowly, gently helped Sherlock to stand and step out of the bath. He seemed to be in a bit of a better mood. It was very slight though, seeing as he still winced when standing up, but it was there.

"Okay, hold onto my shoulders." John directed. Despite his comments about John treating him like he was going to shatter, Sherlock did as he was told. His nails were longer than usual so they dug in quite a bit into John's shoulders. But John didn't mind, and when he had two free hands he wrapped the towel around Sherlock, careful of the branding and deeper gashes adorning his back. "There we go, love."

Sherlock's hair was still dripping wet, so John had brought a second, smaller towel out. Standing in front of Sherlock who was perched on the edge of the bed, John began to towel off the main wet curls and wipe off any excess droplets from around Sherlock's neck and jaw. "Are you cold? I can always turn on the heaters if you are."

"I'm fine, John. Honestly." If Sherlock wasn't in the state he was in now, John wouldn't have believed him. He got down on his hunkers and continued to dry Sherlock, all the way down his front and around his back. "Do you want me to lie down?"

"It would help with the dressing, yes." said John softly, guiding Sherlock gently to lie on his stomach. Sherlock tried to relax by lying his cheek into the soft pillow and closing his eyes. After some rooting around on John's account in the first aid box, the doctor managed to find an appropriate supply of what was necessary. "I've found some burn cream, gauze dressing and some tape." He sat himself on the edge of the bed and gently placed a few cooling fingers on the detective's back. Sherlock inhaled softly but he got quickly used to the feel of John's clever fingers as they traced the reddened gashes on his back.

Taking the burn cream, John put a pea-sized amount onto his index finger. Gently holding Sherlock's good shoulder down with the palm of his other hand, and murmuring an apology in advance for how much this was going to hurt, he spread the cream over the first stroke of the **M**. Sherlock bit down hard on the pillow, his entire back tensing under John's hand as he bit back a sharp moan of pain. Each stroke of the branded **M**got another dollop of cream, and when John finally finished and wiped his fingers on the smaller of Sherlock's towels the detective went limp with a grateful sort of sound. He hardly stirred as John tore off a square of gauze and taped it down over his shoulder.

"Do you feel up to getting dressed? I'm going to order breakfast and I don't want one of the hotel's staff walking in on you naked." He brushed Sherlock's hair off his forehead, smoothing the damp curls.

"I might be able to, with a bit of help." Slowly, still trembling a little, Sherlock sat up and looked around for John's overnight bag. The former army doctor dug it out from under the bed and set it at Sherlock's feet before sitting near the head of the bed, near the phone. He watched closely, judging how sore Sherlock still was by the way he gingerly shrugged into the white button-up shirt that John had brought. He buttoned it up slowly before digging his underwear and trousers out of the bag. Looking down at them a bit helplessly, he glanced over at John.

Managing a small smile and a quiet chuckle to himself, John left the head of the bed and helped the detective wriggle into his briefs and pants.

Sherlock felt marginally better dressed, and he even got his own socks on as John ordered what sounded like enough food for three people. Far too much food, he thought, until his stomach growled like a hungry dog. Sherlock shot a look down at his stomach in something like surprise. Now _that_ was a sound that he hadn't heard almost since John moved in.

* * *

><p><strong>John's such a sweetheart, no? <strong>


	17. Maroon Briefs on a Ceiling Fan

**Right, review replies are at the bottom. Thanks as usual to "Sherlock" who helps a great deal. Kudos! **

**Slightly longer chapter to get things moving. **

**Warnings: Contains slash. **

**Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to the BBC. I only own this plot.**

* * *

><p>"Thanks Mate." John dug a tip of five pounds from his jeans pocket and slipped it into the awaiting bellboy's hands. The bellboy, whose nametag read Terrence, graciously nodded to John and held the door open for the former army doctor to wheel the food trolley in. Terrence left them in peace with a polite "thank you, Sir," and tottered off to do his next duties.<p>

Sherlock was sitting on the edge of the bed with his hands folded in his lap. He had to admit to himself that he was feeling better than he had been last night, thanks to the bath, the burn cream and now being fully dressed. John had insisted he leave his suit jacket off, seeing as it was such a tight fit that Sherlock risked having it dig his dressing into the injury. Instead, John lent him one of his own blue and white striped loose fitting (on Sherlock's lanky frame) jumpers. It was odd, seeing Sherlock dressed in something so John-like. But it was comfy, nonetheless.

"Right, so we have a full Irish breakfast with some toast." John wheeled the trolley over and took down the two platters of food. He un-lidded the full Irish and placed that on the bed beside Sherlock, along with the toast on another plate. There was more food than necessary. Sherlock had heard John add "and a bit extra if you will," when he ordered the food.

"Do you want some tea or coffee?" Sherlock's stomach gave a growl when John asked that and he looked down at his plate. In any other situation, a few bites and maybe a slice of toast would have been good enough for the consulting detective, but his stomach had been empty for quite a while now.

"I think some tea will go best with this. N-not too strong, though." He smiled weakly at John and pulled his feet onto the bed. John immediately piled some pillows up against the headboard to support his lover's back. He would have protested, but the feeling was relieving and quite cooling against Sherlock's back so instead he just gave an appreciative sort of noise and settled back.

"I also have some paracetemol in my bag somewhere. But you have to line your stomach first so tuck in, love." John poured out two teas, adding some sugar to Sherlock's to give the man energy.

"Thank you, John." Sherlock took the plate of toast and pushed one of the slices onto the full Irish plate. He then took two of the four sausages, both of the tomatoes (seeing as John didn't like them) and a rasher. He took his new plate and put it beside him. "Stop fussing over me and eat something too. Please." Sherlock tried his best not to look helpless and carefully bit into his toast.

John sat cross legged across from him at the foot of the bed and ate some of his own food - not before adding some pudding and a rasher onto Sherlock's plate, though - John was going to make it his personal duty to put some meat back on Sherlock's bones. And Sherlock didn't protest, seeing as his stomach was grateful for the sudden nourishment. When their plates were clear (almost - Sherlock never ate the top crust of a slice of toast) and Sherlock had taken his paracetemol, John piled the plates and empty cups onto the tray and wheeled it to the opposite side of the room.

"I think we should drop in on Mycroft and Lestrade. He was quite worried about you last night." John held out a hand to Sherlock.

"Since we got together," Sherlock started, grasping John's hand and letting the older man help him to his feet, "Mycroft and I have been getting along a lot more."

"He loves you, you know. You're his baby brother." John could have sworn he heard Sherlock snort weakly but when he looked at the man, his face was more a mixture of embarrassment and happiness. Breakfast must have settled nicely in his stomach; it definitely gave the detective some energy back and put a little bit of colour back into his pallid face. John took a minute to fidget with Sherlock's (John's) jumper to make sure it hung right off the detective's much narrower shoulders. It was finally too much for Sherlock, who planted his hands into his lover's stomach and pushed him back.

"John, if you keep that up we'll never get out of here and Mycroft will come looking for us." He made it to the door without wobbling, but when he was actually opening the door the step back that he needed nearly pitched him backwards onto the floor. John caught him gently, an arm around the narrowest part of Sherlock's waist to hold him up. He left his arm there as they made their way downstairs and to Mycroft and Lestrade's room. Sherlock didn't protest either; even with breakfast, tea, and a bit of sleep in him he still didn't feel quite like himself. Hopefully that would change later on in the day.

* * *

><p>Lestrade woke early enough that Mycroft hadn't even stirred yet. He yawned and moved to stretch, wincing a bit when muscles that hadn't been put to use in some time made their protests known. He settled down against the elder Holmes brother with a lopsided grin. Even with all the aches from the night before, he couldn't help but be smug. He'd gotten Mycroft into bed. A <em>Holmes<em>. That had to be worth some kind of medal, right?

Mycroft started waking up as Lestrade lay there silently gloating, and when the body nestled against his shifted in a massive yawn Greg lifted his head. "Morning," he murmured.

Mycroft looked down at him as though surprised to see him there, then broke into a grin of his own. "Good morning, Gregory. Fancy seeing you here." Lestrade thumped him lightly in the stomach, making his breath puff out in a quiet laugh. "I'm kidding, love. I fully expected you to be there when I woke up."

"Well, I'd hardly be moving after last night. You're quite a firecracker for the older brother in the family." That earned Lestrade a gentle thump of his own, and he laid his head back down on Mycroft's chest to muffle a laugh. It was good to wake up next to a warm body and be able to have this sort of talk. It had been far too long since he'd had a soft morning conversation like this, and far too long since he'd talked to anyone except Anderson first thing in the morning...

"SHIT." Lestrade sat upright so fast that Mycroft, who'd had his arm around the DI, was pulled halfway up into a sitting position.

"What is it, Gregory?"

"We left Anderson at the manor last night!"

Mycroft was silent for a long moment, then rolled his eyes. "No we didn't, Gregory. James took him back to the hotel very early. He was... Excessive."

"Excessive?"

"Unnecessary. I don't think he was quite made for ambush." Mycroft pulled the DI back down again with a small laugh. "Now come on, it's still morning and I'm sure we have at least another hour in bed."

Lestrade sighed and consented to nuzzling against Mycroft's chest, his fingers drawing lazy pattern on his only slightly plump stomach (not an 'I need a diet' plump, more of a 'not a gym user but I still take care of myself' plump. It was quite cute in Greg's eyes.)

"So, I was thinking…" Lestrade's hand travelled up and down the younger man's chest, fingers kneading and prodding and tweaking. "Since we have 'at least another hour', we should make great use of that."

"Oh?" Mycroft arched an eyebrow, smirking. "Whatever could you mean by that Gregory?" The DI hummed and pressed quick, nipping kisses along Mycroft's collarbone and neck. The elder Holmes brother's smirk grew and he pulled Lestrade on top of him for a kiss.

"Am I making myself clear?" Lestrade murmured against his lover's lips, shifting his legs so they were either side of Mycroft's hips. The sudden exposure of skin against skin made them both breathe deeper.

"Crystal." Mycroft attacked the older man's mouth again, fiercer this time. His hands travelled down Lestrade's sides to his ass, pulling him closer and making the friction between them sharper, drawing a gasp from both men. The kiss got heated, with Lestrade sucking the skin just beneath Mycroft's jaw and Mycroft grinding up into his lover.

Then there was a knock on the door; two short, sharp raps. Both men froze. Lestrade craned his neck to look back at the door, chest heaving. Mycroft was about to say ignore it, thinking it was just room service. Until the knock came again followed by a voice.

"Mycroft? Lestrade? It's John."

"Shit." Mycroft whispered, fumbling with Lestrade as the DI dragged himself off. "Just a minute, John!"

"Mycroft!" Lestrade hissed. "I can't find my underwear-"

"Never mind that just go to the bathroom! Get a towel or something. Quickly."

Outside the door, John was standing next to Sherlock. His arm had a firm grip around Sherlock's waist, keeping him upright even though Sherlock was assuring him he'd be fine.

"What do you think is taking them?" John rolled his shoulders.

"It's Mycroft, John. He doesn't like to rush." Sherlock said that in a casual, almost stoic voice. But when John looked at him there was a hint of a smirk on his face. It was confusing to say the least, but John was too relieved that his lover was actually smiling to bother questioning it.

The door was taken off the latch and opened slowly. Mycroft was standing in a silk royal blue robe. His hair was messy and Sherlock could swear there was a love bite just under his jaw.

"Sherlock! You're up and about?"

"Thanks to John. He made sure I ate something." Sherlock pressed tighter to John, and Mycroft stepped back to let them in. The bed was an absolute mess; a flurry of quickly thrown back sheets and askew pillows. A pair of trousers were peeking out from under the bed, mangled with two shirts and, just a few feet were John was standing, a pair of grey boxers.

John coughed and kept his eyes pointedly away from the floor and the bed. Until Sherlock suddenly looked up that is. Both John and Mycroft followed his eyes, all the way up to a slowly turning ceiling fan sporting a pair of maroon briefs.

"Oh, um…" Mycroft turned the same shade as the briefs. "Well." Lestrade chose that moment to emerge from the bathroom, wearing nothing but a small hotel towel around his lower half. His face was cast down and his expression one of embarrassment.

"They're… Mine. I'll just…" Standing on the end of the bed, the DI reached for his briefs and scurried back to the bathroom, grabbing a pair of trousers on the way. All the while, John was looking between the two men and Sherlock was arching an eyebrow. They didn't know what to say.

"Well, we really just came down to uh… Say good morning? We didn't mean to disturb your-" John bit the inside of his cheek. Really, this was such an awkward moment.

"Anyway, should we pack?" Sherlock dared to look at his older brother. Mycroft nodded quickly and rubbed the back of his neck. It was really obvious what had happened. The fact it was Lestrade and his brother... Was slightly mind-boggling, but then again just look at him and John.

After a moment Mycroft nodded. "Yes. Yes, go gather your things."

"Should we meet in the lobby then?" John asked, backing towards the door. Sherlock followed with a brief smirk to his brother.

"Oh, yes. Forty-five minutes or so?"

"Suits us." John looked from Sherlock to Mycroft. He wanted to ask Mycroft some questions, but not in front of Sherlock. It was too early to bring up what happened again. With a nod, he took Sherlock's hand and they left. Once they were out of earshot, John couldn't help but grin.

"Mycroft and Greg. _Really?" _He paused to open their hotel room door and Sherlock smiled back.

"Apparently so. To be honest, I never thought of that before."

"It is quite strange. But they suit each other well."

"Yeah," John led them inside, "they do. Now come on, we need to pack up, love."

* * *

><p>Sherlock and John were seated on a leather couch in the foyer. Anthea was texting away on her Blackberry on an armchair and Anderson was nowhere in sight. More than likely he had been sent home (because he was useless really.) John, without Sherlock knowing, had texted Mycroft earlier. There was no going back to Baker Street, not for a while anyway. It was too soon and for all they knew, Moriarty could have spies lurking around and Mycroft was not chancing having his baby brother go through that all again. He would rather, in all honesty, chew his own arm off or start World War Three. Sherlock was too important to him – the same could be said for John – and so he had an alternative location for the couple.<p>

"There they are." Sherlock nodded to the left where Mycroft and Lestrade (both fully dressed) were descending the stairs. Mycroft had obviously used concealer on the half love bite under his jaw, seeing as it wasn't visible. He _did _hold a minor role in the government; he couldn't be seen sporting love bites, not visible ones. The detective rolled his eyes when they got closer. "Oh for goodness sake Mycroft, _hold his hand. _Are you a couple or not?"

That got some raised eyebrows. It seemed Sherlock's old self was shining through. Mycroft smiled, John smiled, Lestrade smiled, and even _Anthea _smiled over her Blackberry. Still smiling, the elder Holmes brother reached out and took the DI's hand. Though he was blushing, Lestrade held back.

"Sir? James has a car waiting outside." Anthea stood up and looked at all four of them.

"Then we should leave. How are you feeling now, Sherlock?" Mycroft twirled his umbrella (sword?) around and tapped the ground.

"Better. I'll sleep in the car on the way home." John's heart dropped at that moment. _He still thinks we're going to stay at home…_

"That's the best thing. You go ahead with Greg and get the best seat. John, will you help with the bags?" John gave Sherlock's hand a squeeze before letting go with a nod. When the other two were out of earshot, he turned to Mycroft.

"I haven't told him yet. And what about the cats? They can't stay at Baker Street."

"They're already on their way to the estate, John. And don't worry, Sherlock isn't one to argue over his safety… anymore…"

John picked up the weekend bag he packed back at Baker Street. "But we still need more clothes."

"You can go home to pack necessities. Maybe you should tell him there." Mycroft picked up his own bag and started for the door. "I'm just looking out for the two of you John."

"I know. Thanks Mycroft… For everything." Mycroft smiled thinly at John and held the door open for him. It was going to be a long day.

* * *

><p><strong>Long chapter feels long. Right, review replies:<strong>

**Vannah5234**** – Yep, John is super awesome!**

**Vikki20**** - I gave them all virtual hugs for you. ^^**

**XMillieX**** - John IS an ex-soldier. BAMF is his middle name!**

**chibiwolfgurl**** - Thank you :) I plan to.**

**OnTheWinterSolstice**** - Caring John is caring :P**

**Dreamwalker-Bibliophile**** – Don't worry, fluff will continue soon. But Sherlock has been through a lot so the aftershocks are deep. And yes, I am very cruel ^^**

**Update will be soon!**


	18. Back to Pack

**Here you go you patient lovelies. **

**Warning: Man fluff. No like? Y U READ?**

**Disclaimer: If I actually owned Sherlock, do you think it would still be a beautifully heterosexual show with platonic room-mate love? No. It would be a beautifully heterosexual show with platonic room-mate SEX. **

***ahem* Here you go.**

* * *

><p>James pulled away from the hotel and, when Mycroft gave him an order of "Baker Street", the driver pushed a small button. It made a blacked out screen divide the driver's and back passengers' section of the car, decorated with 'Holmes' in fancy blue writing. It made John quirk an eyebrow at just how normal that kind of thing seemed for a member of the Holmes family. Unlike Lestrade, he hadn't seen the handkerchief embroidered with his initials.<p>

* * *

><p>Sherlock was quiet during the car journey. Instead of talking, he took to staring out the window at the passing countryside. John, Mycroft, and Lestrade didn't talk about much save for a comment on the weather and a brief joke about Anderson (to which Sherlock cracked a smile.) Anthea was too engrossed in reading something on her Blackberry to care. One could swear she was almost <em>blushing, <em>being seated with two couples. Either that or she was emailing a secret lover. But more than likely she was just doing her job; being a good assistant and re-arranging the schedules of meetings to stop a possible war.

John reached down to his weekend bag beneath his feet and pulled out a familiar blue scarf. He placed it on the detective's lap and took his hand, entwining their fingers. Sherlock almost breathed a sigh of relief to John, with a murmur of "thank you". His coat looked incomplete without it. The journey home seemed to take less time than the journey _to _Sussex. John had it down to the fact he had Sherlock back with him and out of Moriarty's clutches. To stop himself thinking of it, he closed his eyes and leaned into Sherlock, who gripped his hand tighter and rested his cheek on John's blonde mop.

"We're here." Mycroft said, tapping his umbrella on the car floor (something of a habit when they reached their destination, John gathered.) The car pulled to a smooth stop right outside 221B and Sherlock smiled. John felt extremely guilty and silently pleaded that the detective wouldn't say something like "home at last," or "home sweet home," that would really make things worse.

"Um, Sherlock…" John started, stepping out of the car and holding out his hand for Sherlock to take. Sherlock shook his head and got out by himself, careful not to put strain on his injuries.

"Yes, John?" The detective didn't see the furtive glances between his brother and John at that point. Mycroft gave a slight nod to tell him it would be okay.

"…When we get inside," John wanted to continue that by saying 'I'll make you a nice cup of tea' but he couldn't, "we have to pack."

"Pack?" Sherlock knocked on the door and craned his neck to look at John. "Why pack? … John?" At this point Lestrade and Mycroft were coming up behind them. The doctor heaved a sigh. But Just as he was about to say something the door opened and Mrs. Hudson was standing with an expression that could only be described as 'Shocked-happy-relieved'.

"Boys!" She started forward, obviously about to hug Sherlock, but John stepped in front and hugged her first.

"He's very sensitive to other people touching him right now, Mrs. Hudson. I'm sorry but we shan't be staying long." John whispered into her ear, careful of letting Sherlock hear. "But don't fuss about him, alright?" He pulled away with a little smile and a pat to their landlady's arm. She gave him a (maybe slightly obvious) knowing wink.

"I missed you dears. Come inside. Oh, hello Inspector." She gave the DI one of her warm smiles and let the four of them in and up the stairs. When Sherlock opened their door he went straight for his leather armchair and sank into it with a small sigh. It seemed he'd forgotten about them having to pack because when he suddenly remembered, he sat up a little too fast, and slowly melted back into the seat with a little "ow".

Mycroft stepped up to his brother and made him sit still. They may have been on friendly terms, but the detective still grumbled when Mycroft played the protective older brother card.

"I'm fine, Mycroft." He said, shrugging off his hand and looking around to John. "Now, can someone please tell me what's going on? Where are Tobias and Bitsy?"

"In Kent." John finally said it. He ran a hand through his cropped hair and walked nearer to Sherlock.

"Kent. Kent is almost two hours away! Why are we going?" When John knelt down to eye level with Sherlock he took his hand. Mycroft backed away to Lestrade so he could give them some space. He spoke up on behalf of John too.

"Baker Street is not safe for you right now, Sherlock."

"And we're going to stay in Kent." John finished, finding Sherlock's hand again and stroking the side of it with his thumb. He really did have a soothing effect on Sherlock, for the detective took a deep breath.

"And that's where the cats are?"

"Yes."

"But why Ken- Oh… The house?" Sherlock glanced at Mycroft who nodded.

"It's the closest and best option." The elder Holmes brother offered one of his thin lipped smiles. "You did love that house as a boy." Sherlock almost grimaced but ended up nodding.

"How long until we leave?" He asked, holding onto John's hand just a little bit tighter. It was almost like he didn't want to leave the place he and John had both called home; the place where their relationship began.

"I'm going upstairs to pack our clothes. Give or take about fifteen minutes, love." John gave Sherlock's forehead a light kiss as he stood up and brushed a wayward curl out of his eyes. "You just rest for the minute, okay?" Sherlock nodded and reluctantly let go of Sherlock's hand. Seeing his younger brother's slight annoyance at having to depend heavily on both he and John, Mycroft followed the doctor upstairs to pack their bags. Lestrade sighed and went to make tea for Sherlock and himself.

"How do you think he'll do? After everything…" John folded some shirts and placed them into the waiting open suitcase. Mycroft stood leaning on his umbrella by the doorframe. John made a quick dash into the adjoining bathroom to retrieve his Blonde Bombshell shampoo.

"It's Sherlock." Mycroft helped to pack some trousers while he was there. "Remember that he is strong _and _has you. The estate you will be staying in will be good for him too."

"In what way?" John stopped packing and looked straight at Mycroft. Mycroft's face took on a look of nostalgia before he went about explaining his story.

"It will bring the old him back if nothing else. That estate was the summer home of us both through all our childhood. Sherlock loved it. Loved the smell of the fresh cut grass, the rolling hills… It was the only calm and quiet place he didn't consider dull."

John smiled and handed Mycroft a pile of socks to add to the case. "The thing Sherlock loved most," Mycroft continued, "was the freedom. He would spend hours upon hours exploring the house and the countryside."

"I can imagine." John laughed. "What was Sherlock like when he was younger?"

"A trouble maker, as you can imagine. Our mother would call him bold, but she did have a soft spot for him, bless her." Mycroft zipped up the case and took it from the bed. "He was a handful I can say for sure. But the house in Kent always calmed him down."

John just smiled at Mycroft and the thoughts of little Sherlock being adorable, and took the case by the handle. "Help me get this downstairs?" The elder Holmes brother nodded and took the rear end of the case.

* * *

><p>Downstairs, Sherlock was sitting with his head lying back against the cool leather of his chair. His eyes were closed and the half-drank cup of tea abandoned on the table beside him. Lestrade was reading a two month old newspaper, glancing up when he heard the two coming down the stairs. Sherlock gave a start when the case echoed off the bottom step and sat up straight, smoothing down the front of his coat.<p>

"You ready?" John asked, going to the kitchen shelf and taking down the box of Darjeerling tea. Sherlock's taste in tea had grown on him. Sherlock sat up and stretched, stopping halfway because of the branding on his back. Standing up slowly, he nodded.

Mycroft took Lestrade down to give the couple time to say goodbye to their flat in peace. John joined his lover in the middle of the room.

"We'll be coming back eventually, you know. As soon as Mycroft's people decide that London is safe enough for you." He brushed a wayward curl off Sherlock's forehead, tucking it into the detective's tousled mop. "I don't think Mrs Hudson would let us stay away forever, anyway. You know how much she likes having us around."

Sherlock managed a half-smile and slipped his scarf loosely around his neck. "I know, John. Even Mycroft isn't generous enough to let us stay rent-free at the Kent estate for too long." He took one last long look around the flat, then gave a short nod. "I'll tell Mycroft to send someone back for some of my things... My lab kit, at least. And the rest of your clothes. And the books. I don't want to be out in the country without my books." With that, he took John's wrist and led him down the seventeen stairs to the street. There was a quick goodbye to Mrs Hudson, including a hesitant and awkward hug, before they clambered back into Mycroft's waiting car.

John breathed a slow sigh of relief as they pulled away. He had fully expected something to happen between going up the stairs and coming back down. That was just how their lives seemed to be going these days. Settling down into his seat, he laid his head over on Sherlock's shoulder again. Within a little while he had started dozing off, but not before he felt Sherlock press a light kiss to the top of his head and murmur some endearment that he didn't quite hear.


	19. Kent part one

**Part one of the Kent chapters. I'm planning to keep John and Sherlock there for about a month, so the next few chapters will be nice and romantic-y. It's to get the broken Sherlock back to his normal self and, towards the end of this fiction, a nice little surprise.**

**There'll be fluffy moments and smutty moments so yeah. This is a longish chapter, going by my usual chapter lengths. MUCHO thanks to Sarah for helping with the house imagery and description, and general saint-like patience with my writing.**

**Warning: Sherlock and John fluff.**

**Disclaimer: of course I own Sherlock… I wish. Sherlock belongs to Mark Godtiss and Steven Moffat so yeah.**

* * *

><p>John had to keep from pressing his face up against the window like a small child as Mycroft's car followed the gently curving drive up toward the estate. The whole length of it was lined with massive trees, oaks or elms, with heavy limbs that arched over the drive and let in a few speckles of golden sunlight. Sherlock didn't seem all that excited about coming back to Kent, even if he had loved the house as a boy. He <em>was<em>watching out the window, though, obviously waiting for something.

What he had to have been waiting for came into view around the next wide, sweeping curve of the driveway. The trees swept away from the road and arced off to either side, straightening out and disappearing out of the line of sight. John's jaw dropped onto his chest; it felt like they'd just driven out of the late 2000's and back into the Victorian era. The driveway opened out into a large round turnabout around a massive apple tree, fully clad in pink blossoms that showered petals onto the soft clipped grass beneath it. As they came around the huge tree, John got a better look at the house.

His jaw was already on his chest but it might have well been in his lap at this point. The house only amplified the Victorian feeling; a porch lined with columns, high arched windows with thick curtains, and a sweeping expanse of manicured lawn.

As the former doctor sat staring like a dolt, a long hand reached over and pushed up on the underside of his jaw. "Do stop staring, John. They'll think you've never seen a house like this before."

"I haven't! Except in films, anyway!" The car rolled to a softly crunching stop near the front porch, and James stepped out to open the back door for them. John was the first to clamber out, craning his head backward to stare up at the three stories of stone towering above him. Sherlock and Mycroft followed a bit more slowly, and Mycroft stayed out of the car only long enough to unload the single suitcase they'd brought and to promise that the rest of their belongings would be sent over. John barely noticed as Mycroft got back in the car and drove off. In fact, he hardly noticed anything until Sherlock touched his shoulder.

"I hope you're not planning on standing here staring at the house until we fall asleep. I _would_like to go in and have something to eat, and maybe a cup of tea." John finally blinked and shook his head, twisting it around to look at his lover. He smiled and took Sherlock's hand off his shoulder with his own and twined their fingers together. It was nice to see Sherlock slowly coming out of his shell.

"I'll make us two nice cups of Darjeerling in that case, love."

"No need, John. I'm sure one of the maids will do that for us." Sherlock lead the way up the remainder of gravelly ground and up to the porch, John staring around all the way.

"Maids, you say?" Now John _really _felt like a celebrity. Or a Holmes.

"And cooks. We have one of the best cooks working for us, from the Bronx in New York." Sherlock smiled at John, who picked up their suitcase, and opened the door. "Welcome to Kent."

The inside of the house opened into a large lobby. The first thing John noticed was the staircase, wide at the bottom and then widening at the top again as it swept to either side. It was a deep mahogany with a dark runner carpet running through the middle. The floors of the lobby were white, golden flecked marble. What illuminated the whole lobby made John shake his head in utter surprise; a crystal drop chandelier, the kind he only ever seen on those "Beverly Hills Houses" programmes.

To the right hand side of the lobby John could see double doors which were open, revealing a library. From where he stood, he could just barely make out the silhouette of a spiralling staircase inside.

"That's our three story library." Sherlock stated, his voice a mixture of awe for the room with something like resentment for owning such a house.

"This house is beautiful. I mean… Absolutely fucking stunning. Excuse my language." Sherlock smirked and cleared his throat as two maids came trotting from the left.

"Mister Holmes, Doctor Watson. Welcome." One of the maids, a young woman with short, wavy red hair in a navy dress and embroidered white half-apron bowed. The apron had "Deirdre" printed in the same navy shade thread as the dress, on the bottom left corner. John wondered how they knew who he was, but then again they were more than likely informed by Mycroft earlier.

"Can we offer you something to eat, Sir?" The second maid, this one called "Emily" asked. She was taller and slightly older looking than Deirdre, with her greying blonde hair scraped back into a tight bun.

"Thank you. Can you please get Rory to prepare us a meal?" Sherlock turned himself and John so their connected hands were on full display to the maids. The younger one blushed and tucked her head down slightly to hide behind her hair. "And please send up a tray of Darjeerling tea to whichever bedroom Doctor Watson chooses."

John glanced at Sherlock once before smiling to the maids, who nodded and turned away (the younger of the two still blushing.) "Which room are we staying in?" He asked, picking up the suitcase again and walking for the stairs with Sherlock.

"Like I said, whichever you choose. All the bedrooms are down the left hand side." Sherlock nodded down the appropriate hallway as they reached the top of the staircase. "Down the right is the second entrance to the library."

John looked down the impossibly long hallway and saw five doors. He walked to the first door and stopped outside it, twisted the decorative doorknob and opened it to reveal a spacious, but cosy room. "I like this one."

Sherlock chuckled and allowed John to enter. "What?" John questioned, putting the suitcase down against the nearest wall.

"Nothing. I just find it cute that you chose my old room."

"_Your _room?" John looked around him, grinning. The top half of the walls were a rich, burgundy wallpaper with a Victorian brocade design. The bottom half was dark wood panelling, which contrasted nicely. There was a small fireplace that had never served any other purpose than decoration, the mantelpiece displaying a small vase of white roses. It stood proudly opposite the bed.

The bed itself was a king-sized four poster in the same dark wood as the walls, surrounded by a thick cream curtain. The bedsheets were silk and designed to match the pattern of the curtain – delicate swirls. On the far side of the bedroom stood a massive wardrobe (big enough to squeeze Sherlock, John _and _Mycroft inside!) There was a door beside the fireplace that led into a small and very unused en-suite, just a simple white and black tiled room.

"Do you like it?" Sherlock asked, sounding a tiny bit unsure. "There's always Mumm- the master bedroom at the end of the hall. It's bigger than this-"

"Sherlock."

"And the fireplace actually gets used in that room, so-"

"Sherlock!" Sherlock stopped short to look at his lover, whose goofy grin was still intact. "This is fine. This is more than fine. I love it." With that, he reached up and gave Sherlock a small kiss to his lips; a light, barely there peck.

"Alright." Sherlock dipped his head down to meet the light kiss, almost resting a hand on John's hip. "Should we unpack, then? While we wait for supper." At that point the shy maid knocked on the door.

"Your tea, Mister Holmes." She put the tray down on a small table next to the door and was about to pour the tea when Sherlock stopped her, gently touching her shoulder.

"I'll take it from here, Deirdre. Thank you." He flashed a little smile and she blushed again, stepping back and bowing.

"R-right, Sir. Thank you, Sir." She stammered, glancing at John before scurrying off.

"She's very shy." John pointed out, going over to take up where she left off.

"New one. Only here about six months and the only Holmes she met before today was Mycroft." Sherlock took his tea with a grateful sigh and sat on the edge of his bed. John decided she was either having a little crush on Sherlock or was shy being around an obviously gay couple.

"Oh. Right, well, you relax and I'll start unpacking." John ran his hands through Sherlock's thick curls, while unconsciously checking his forehead for signs of a temperature. After a moment, he unzipped the suitcase and started to take out the first of his shirts. Sherlock put his tea down on the bedside locker and joined John.

"John, I'm perfectly capable of unpacking a few shirts. _Please, _stop fussing about me." He took a the pile from the doctor's hands and went to the wardrobe.

"If you say so, love."

* * *

><p>Smells of roasted chicken wafted through the house. It was mingled with the smells of home-made gravy, fresh baked bread, and something distinctly spicy. It made John's mouth water and his stomach grumble.<p>

"Hungry?" Sherlock looked over at John from where he was adjusting some shelves in the wardrobe. "Usually Rory sends the smell through the house to entice us down."

"Starving." John grinned and stood up with a stretch. "Now, how do we _find _the food?" They joined hands and Sherlock tugged him out of the bedroom. Looking around as they descended the stairs, John could see an array of large oak doors to the left of the main entrance.

"What do they lead to?" John asked, pointing with his free hand. "Those doors there."

"Well, that first one there is the parlour. It's barely used except for when company is over. The one beside that is the guest downstairs bathroom. It has a sort of hot-tub bath in the centre." Sherlock led John towards said doors and turned a corner, down a hallway that couldn't be seen from the lobby. "Through the very last door there are stairs leading to the kitchen and pantry. The next room up is the smaller of two dining rooms where we'll be dining."

"Where is the bigger one?" John asked, trying to make a mental note of the maze that was this mansion. Sherlock smirked at John's curiosity.

"Well, we'll have to see if you can find that next time, won't we? Anyway, the nearest room on this side is the music room. It has a grand piano in it and a very old record player. Mycroft is the only one who can play the piano with any real skill and Mummy thought it was a good idea to have one here for whenever the family got together. She does love to show off his skills..."

"This is very nice, Sherlock." John gave the hallway an appreciative glance again and started for the dining room.

"You haven't seen outside yet." Sherlock chuckled. "Come on, before the food goes cold."

They walked to the dining room. It was a relatively big room with a long, wooden table adorned with a white laced table runner, and white, high backed fabric chairs. Two candle chandeliers lit up each end of the table and the glow gave the room a vintage feel. Thick curtains adorned two Victorian sash windows. Because it was darkening outside, John couldn't see anything but the silhouettes of fields and hills. He took a seat in the middle beside Sherlock and they waited.

This time a butler and a maid came out to serve them, wheeling a small trolley. The butler was short, shorter than John was. He was middle aged but the obvious hair dye gave him a younger appearance. The maid was pretty, if John was honest. Probably in her thirties, going by the bright eyes and good skin. The only let on about her age was the lines around her eyes. They were both dressed in black and white pant suits, tailored to fit their gender and body shape.

"Your food Mister Holmes, Doctor Watson." The butler laid out an array of silver platters before them on the table, and the maid set two wine glasses and a bottle of both red and white wine.

"Rory says welcome back, Sir." The maid spoke, un-lidding the platters and dropping a very slight curtsy before wheeling the trolley away.

"Thank you Miriam!" Sherlock called. "And thank you, Dorian. Make sure you give my compliments to Rory. And tell the boy to come talk to me tomorrow." With a wink to the butler, Sherlock turned his attention to the food. When the butler left, John laughed.

"Well, it seems you're very well respect around here, Mister Holmes." He gave his lover a gentle smile to show he was being light-hearted.

"We can thank Mycroft for that. He only hires people who he knows will treat any guest like royalty. Even you, Doctor Watson." Sherlock smiled back and gestured to the food. "Mycroft also told Rory your favourite meal – roast chicken. And he knows my love of Thai food."

"So I can see. Shall we?"

They tucked into the food, Sherlock even taking extra and John making an appreciative sound as he bit into his chicken. White wine was poured but neither of them really drank any of it, just a sip here and there to wash some of the food down.

John finally sat back in his chair, his feet stretched out under the table and one hand resting on his stomach. He had made rather a pig of himself, but he could see why Mycroft had bothered to bring Rory in all the way from New York. The man was a genius with spices and a roaster, he had to admit, and the spring rolls had practically been to die for. Sherlock watched him with mild amusement, still picking at his own nearly cleared plate with his chopsticks. "I'm really going to have to thank your brother for all this."

"Don't bother. He knows that you'll appreciate good, home-cooked food and we wouldn't want his head to swell up any further." Sherlock's mouth twitched into some semblance of his old half-smile as he glanced down at his plate. "If you want to go exploring, John, I wanted to spend some time in the library. I _have_missed it more than anything else around here."

"I think I might get lost! This place is an utter maze, you know."

"Well, you could go explore the grounds. You're not going to get lost out on the lawn, are you?"

John stared at him across the table for a moment before chuckling lightly and taking another sip of his wine. "Alright, you have a point. I'll go outside for a bit and meet you in the library afterward."

"Do try not to get lost, then." Standing up with only a slight wince, Sherlock padded over and stooped down to press a kiss against John's cheek before slipping out. John finished the last bit of wine in the bottom of his glass before getting up himself. He started to gather up the dishes to take them to the kitchen before remembering where he was and that the maids, or the butler, would collect them for him. Shaking his head a bit at the ridiculousness of it all, John left the little dining room and made his way out the front door. The sun had started to set, and the light washing over the front grounds of the Kent estate was a rosy golden colour now.

He was taken anew by the beauty of the place, especially in the ruddy evening light. He didn't quite believe it all just yet. Maybe after a good night's sleep in Sherlock's bed would help all this sink in. He went down off the step, following the porch around to the side of the house. The manicured lawn that followed the front of the house swept around to the back, finally ending in a post-and-rail fence. Inside the fence, much to John's surprise, was a small herd of glossy, well-kept horses. Leaning on the fence, he counted eight in total; three blacks, a small spotted foal, a dark colt, a smaller white one, a large dapple-grey, and a smallish, rather round reddish one cropping grass on the other side of the fenced in area. Given the fact that it was a country estate and this _was_Mycroft Holmes, John imagined he rather should have expected there to be horses.

He stood there leaning on the fence for quite some time, long enough for the spotted foal to leave its mother and prance over to the fence. John held out a hand for the foal to investigate, eventually lightly scratching the velvety nose and between the small, pricked ears. The creature eventually lost interest and went back to its mother, nuzzling up against her side as she grazed.

While the horses were very nice, it was quite quickly getting dark and John had been outside for quite a while. Sherlock was probably wondering what had happened to him.

Making his way back inside, across the massive marble lobby, and up the stairs was an expedition all on its own. In fact, it was almost full dark outside before he finally found himself in the library. The massive room occupied the entire right wing of the house on all three floors. Sherlock was on the bottom floor, fast asleep in a leather wingback chair, with Aristotle's _Nichomachean Ethics_spread open on his knee. John almost didn't have the heart to wake him, but the way the detective was sprawled was going to create problems in the morning. Reaching out a hand, he brushed one of Sherlock's curls off his forehead. "Sherlock... Wake up, love."

Sherlock mumbled something and opened one eye a fraction. "Don't wanna..."

"You can't sleep in here. Come to bed."

With obvious reluctance, Sherlock heaved himself out of the chair, put his book down where he'd been sitting, and toddled obediently after John. Back in Sherlock's room, it was like struggling with a petulant child to get him out of his clothes and into his blue silk pyjamas. Manoeuvring him around so he lay on John's chest rather than on his back was like wrestling with a sack of wet flour, and by the time all his limbs were arranged to John's satisfaction the detective was out cold again. Smiling a bit, John pressed a kiss to the top of his lover's head and let him sleep. He soon dropped off himself, one arm loosely over Sherlock's back and the other resting on the back of the detective's neck.

* * *

><p><strong>Thank you to the reviewer and of course, readers. You are all deserving of a high five.<strong>


	20. Kent part two

**Kent part two. Thank to those who reviewed and story-alerted. Review replies at the bottom.**

**This is what happens in Kent when the weather is nice and the couple have the day to themselves. Horse-riding, Sherlock in tight jodhpurs, and tree house fun.**

**Another long chapter. Childishness, fluff, fun.**

**Warning: …WHY should there be a warning? Het couples don't have warnings so neither does this.**

**Disclaimer: If I could own Sherlock and put him in skin tight jodhpurs I so would.**

* * *

><p>What woke John the next day was not the light, seeing as the curtains in Sherlock's bedroom were thick enough to keep the room nice and dark. It was the sound of a cock crowing in the distance, loud enough that the sleeping John could be roused to wakefulness. He blinked bleary eyed around the room and it took him a second to realise Sherlock wasn't in the bed beside him. John sat up like a shot, alarmed, before remembering exactly <em>where<em> he was; Moriarty had absolutely no access, nobody would have let Sherlock leave without a good reason, and there was nowhere for him to go. They were two hours' drive from London, after all, and Sherlock wasn't about to _walk_ back to the flat on Baker Street.

The doctor lay back down again and sighed, rubbing his face with his hands. Glancing beside him, he saw Sherlock's pyjamas folded neatly on his pillow. He smiled. No matter what, the man always folded his pyjamas neatly on his pillow like a habit. "I suppose I better get up." He yawned, speaking to himself. When he caught himself doing so, he shook his head. "First sign of madness, John… And answering myself is the second."

So, pulling back the thick curtains to allow some morning light in, John got himself into a pair of old jeans and the stripy jumper Sherlock wore the previous day. It struck John then that all of Sherlock's clothes were still hanging up in the wardrobe, including his shoes. The detective was hardly running about stark naked? Still confused, but now utterly intrigued (and secretly hoping that _was_ the case), John made a very quick bathroom break.

Running a hand through his thickly growing blonde hair, John could see a grey hair. This mirror was now personal enemy number one. _A grey hair… _he thought, _but I'm only thirty-eight!_Sighing and trying to think no more of it, John left the bedroom and went to look for Sherlock.

The maid who had served them dinner last night was mopping the marble floor in the lobby. "Good morning Doctor Watson." She put the mop and bucket away and wiped her hands on her apron. "Just watch this floor here. It can be quite painful if you slip." She offered him a smile as he cautiously reached the bottom step.

"Morning, erm…"

"Miriam." She answered. Her long, straight black hair was tied into a loose side ponytail. She wasn't wearing a navy dress under her apron like the other two maids, just a simple pair of black trousers and a grey shirt. John, even though he was wholly committed to Sherlock, still found her to be very pretty. If he had a type (and a bigger interest in women), she would be considered quite beautiful, with her big brown eyes and button nose.

"Right, sorry Miriam. Have you seen Sherlock?"

"Check the stables. He went out in riding gear this morning so I can only assume, Sir. If he's not there, he'll probably be in the riding arena. Just follow the trail from the stables." She started to wheel the mop and bucket away.

"Thanks, Miriam!" John called after her and carefully picked his way across the floor. "Have a good morning." He made his way out the door and around the back. Going past the post-and-rail fence he had seen the horses in the previous evening, John found the stable yard and it was absolutely huge! The doctor walked around it, looking at the well spaced troughs and feeders, and the entrance to the tack room. There was a water pump and a well, both made of thick grey stone. It gave the stable yard a very authentic, ancient, but beautiful feel.

The interior of the stable where the horses were kept was just as big and dimly lit. Bales of hay were stacked on side, and the other side were the actual stables. John counted seven horses instead of eight; the dapple stallion was missing. The little spotted foal poked his head out of his mother's stall as John passed. The only stable door that didn't have a horse behind it held a fancy brass plaque with 'Last Enemy' engraved into it. _Odd name for a horse, really, unless he's particularly mean.  
><em>  
>"Excuse me, Sir, but I don't think we've met." A young man with a heavy Bristol accent came around the corner. He was dressed in a pair of faded tracksuit bottoms, muddied Wellies, a checked shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and a vintage looking hardware waistcoat. His hair was short and straw colour, peeking out in little wisps under his backwards worker cap, and he was wheeling a wheelbarrow with what looked like horse-feed in it. "My name's Darryl. Mister Sherlock told me about you this morning."<p>

"Oh, I'm John. John-"

"Watson, yes. I know." He gave a friendly smile. "Mister Sherlock is out riding if you want to go up. Just follow that path there." He gestured out of the stable and in the direction of a cobble path. John nodded in thanks and Darryl went about his business.

Sure enough, John found a large riding arena filled with smoothly raked sand at the end of the path. He was just tall enough to lean his forearms on the surrounding fence. What he saw brought a huge grin to his face; Sherlock, decked out in full riding dressage, trotting around the arena on the dapple-grey stallion. John couldn't help but notice how tight fit and tailored to perfection his riding gear was, especially the khaki coloured jodhpurs. Tailored to the point that John was sure the bloody things were going to burst apart at the seams every time Sherlock shifted his weight in the saddle.

The horse launched into a steady canter and jumped smoothly over a jumping post. The detective lifted out of the saddle as the dapple's hooves left the ground, crouching low over the horse's neck, and settled lightly back down as his hooves found the sandy floor of the arena and kicked up a spray of dirt. This process repeated enough times that John had to keep from staring _only_at Sherlock's backside and focus on his skill as a rider. Which was harder than one might expect and made John feel like a virtual saint, thank you very much.

John clapped and stood on tip-toe when Sherlock noticed him. The detective reined the horse to a trot and eventually a walk, before stopping at the fence beside John. His cheeks were flushed pink and a few wayward curls peeked out from under his helmet. The black leather riding crop was held in his right hand, tucked just under the reins and resting against the dapple's shoulder. Leaving the thin leather reins draped over the front of the saddle, Sherlock swung lightly down to lean on the fence beside John, mindful of his shoulder.

"I see you're feeling better."

"It helps to be home." The detective unbuckled his helmet and lifted it off, tossing his head back to keep his hair out of his eyes. "And to be around the one you love. But yes, I'm feeling better." The dapple snorted and pawed at the sand, dropping his head a bit. "Ah, the poor dear's tired out. I suppose I should bring him in. Walk with me?" Sherlock put his helmet back on but left the chinstrap unbuckled, taking the stallion's bridle loosely in one hand. John opened the gate for him as he led the horse out and closed it behind his lover. Only to be polite, really, not to get a last fleeting glimpse of Sherlock's bottom in those trousers. Not at all. John was going to be a good boy, really.

He trotted up to walk beside Sherlock, who cast a slightly tired smile at him. "I didn't know you rode, Sherlock."

"Well, there isn't much else to do out here in the summers. I used to be better, but I'm quite out of practice. I used to ride Last Enemy's sire as a boy, before he got put out to pasture."

The soft crunch of sand and gravel underfoot changed to the louder ringing of Sherlock's riding boots on the wooden floor of the stable. There was a rail at about hip-height near the tack room, and Sherlock tied his dapple to this before going for a halter, curry comb, and chamois. Darryl came to take the saddle, saddle pad, and bridle, inclining his head politely to both John and Sherlock before going off with them to clean them. John found a perch on a hay bale to wait for Sherlock to finish with the horse.

"So Mycroft must have known you'd come riding when he sent us here, then?"

"Oh, he must have. He wouldn't have brought Starter for Ten up from the other estate if he thought you wouldn't be riding as well, though." Sherlock scratched under the dapple's mane as he worked the round curry comb down the horse's body, cleaning off the sweat and dirt. John looked away long enough to scan the plaques on the stall doors; Starter for Ten was the roundish chesnut in the second stall from the end.

"Mycroft expects me to go _riding_? With _you_?"

"Well, yes. He thinks that fresh air and exercise will be good for the both of us, and he knows that you'd be more willing to go riding if I went with you." Sherlock ran a hand over the horse's hindquarters to keep him from kicking as he went around to his other side. Only his head was visible above the dappled back. "There are some lovely trails in the hills, and we can't get far from the estate on them unless we cut through the thickest part of the woods." The curry comb was traded for the chamois, and Sherlock crouched down to wipe clumps of sand from the dapple's fetlocks.

"You're not planning on going out there again today, are you?" He didn't relish the prospect of nursing Sherlock back into a fit state after two rounds in the saddle in one day.

"Oh, heavens no." Sherlock straightened up and came back around to the side nearest John, once again kneeling to brush off some sand. He said something else, but John missed it. He was trying _very_ hard not to stare at Sherlock's bottom in his jodhpurs but when he crouched down like that it was impossible. John chose to make some sort of vague sound of agreement and nod, and did his best not to look _too_glazed when Sherlock turned around and straightened up again. "Anyway, that's pretty much done. I'm going to have a shower before lunch, then you can go on up to the sunroom. From what I hear that's where the maids are keeping the cats and I'm sure the poor things are just ready to collapse from loneliness."

"Er... Yes, of course they are. I'll check on them."

Sherlock gave a too-knowing little smile and leaned down to whisper into John's ear. "Promise not to tear them off in front of the help and I'll keep these on the rest of the day. Coat and boots, too, if that's what you'd like, _Doctor Watson_." And, with that, he turned on the heel of one immaculately polished boot and padded off. John just sort of sat on his hay bale and stared at the wall, wondering what all that was about. He stayed there until the sound of Sherlock's boots faded into the distance, and hopped down. Before Darryl returned to take the dapple away, John gave Last Enemy's muzzle a stroke, amazed at the horses height compared to his own. Sherlock's head may have been visible above the body, but John's definitely was not.

He said his goodbyes to Darryl and took a nice stroll the long way back to the house, stopping a few times to look at some strange wild flower or just appreciate the beauty of the countryside. He could see now why this would have such a healing affect on Sherlock; the fresh air and lack of noise or air pollution would lift anyone's spirits.

* * *

><p>Back in the house, John went straight for the sunroom on the third floor which connected to the uppermost part of the library. The sunroom itself was filled with bright daylight, made of large panelled glass that arced into a curve for the roof. There was a sliding glass door leading out to a balcony, which overlooked the fields and trees in the distance. In the centre were two Victorian style loveseats facing each other and made of fine white velvet. A small black coffee table (Victorian style again, to match the theme of the room) was between the loveseats, with two vases of fresh purple petunias decorating either end.<p>

John let out a breath at its beauty and could only imagine what the stars would look like with a view like this. A little meow cut his admiration, and his attention was brought to a ball of fluff running towards him.

"Bitsy!" John knelt down and allowed the kitten – who had grown quite a bit since they first got her – to hop onto his lap and nuzzle into him. He stayed there for a minute, laughing and giving her ear a little scratch, before picking her up and looking around. "Where's Tobias, eh?"

As if on cue, the striped tom cat poked his head out from the entrance to the library and looked (more like glared, actually) at John. Bitsy wriggled out of John's grasp and scampered over to the other cat. As John got closer, Tobias took a hesitant step back, but when John stopped and just stooped down with his hand outstretched, he poked his nose forward and sniffed.

"It's alright, boy. Come on." John coaxed, rubbing his thumb and index finger together. "I've missed you, you know. We didn't mean to leave you both alone but we're back now. For good."

"John, I'm not quite sure they understand what you're saying." Sherlock smirked and appeared at the door of the sunroom, hair still damp from his shower. His white shirt was open and his riding coat draped over his arm. The khaki jodhpurs looked as gloriously tight as ever. "Or do you, kids?" Tobias padded carefully over to Sherlock and stopped a few feet away, giving him a look that said 'If you ever leave like that again, I won't be this forgiving.'

"Well, it seems Tobias understands." John smiled and gave his lover a very appraising look (obviously satisfied.) "Do you need me to apply a new dressing?"

"Please." Sherlock was granted permission by Tobias to pet him, and he chuckled as he did so. "It's not as sore anymore."

"That's a good sign. Come on then, I'll have it done before lunch." He took Sherlock's hand and they went to the bedroom, letting the cats go back to their lounging. The scar was scabbing, starting to heal itself. With the help of the burn cream and the change of dressing, Sherlock's back would heal fast (as fast as serious burn healing went, that is.) The whip marks were all but gone, with the exception of one or two feint marks towards the middle of the detective's back. John helped Sherlock back into his shirt and smoothed down the front of it.

"We'll be eating lunch outside today. There's a nice picnic table on the back lawn." Sherlock wound an arm around John's waist, lead him away from the bedroom and down the stairs. Deirdre turned her head sharply away from the direction of Sherlock; the riding dressage obviously making her blush profusely.

"Oh, lovely. What's Rory cooking, love?" John was well aware that Deirdre had an obvious crush on the detective, which was kind of sweet considering she was only in her late teens and more than likely not used to seeing him in all his glory. And she had good taste.

"Chicken soup with grilled cheese and tomato sandwiches. Well, _mine _will have tomato in them."

"My favourite soup, very nice." They picked their way out the back door and to the well manicured lawn where a wooden picnic bench sat.

"You know that young maid in there, Deirdre," John rested his elbows on the wooden table-top and smirked at Sherlock. "I think she's quite fond of you."

"Well, I'm yours. So she'll just have to observe unfortunately." Sherlock did his best to hide a smirk creeping onto his face.

"Observe? Observe what exactly?" John raised an eyebrow at his lover.

"This." The detective leaned forward and gave John a quick kiss. John could feel Sherlock smirking against his mouth, and kissed back. A little cough coming from behind pulled them apart.

"Here's your lunch, Sherlock Sir." A boy who looked just as young as Deirdre, with brighter ginger hair and freckles that connected when he smiled put down a plate of sandwiches and two bowls of chicken soup in the centre of the table.

"Ah, Rory. Nice to see you again." Sherlock gestured back and forth between the two to give introductions. "John, this is Rory, our New Yorker cook. Rory, this is John, my boyfriend."

"It's very nice to meet you, Rory. Your meal last night was excellent." John offered his hand and Rory shook it nice and strong.

"Only the best for Sherlock and his partner. You two enjoy that meal now. The sandwiches on the top have no tomatoes. Sherlock made sure I knew you weren't fond of them." Giving a wink to Sherlock, Rory flipped a tea towel over his shoulder and went back inside. John looked over at Sherlock and smiled, maybe even blushed (it could have been the heat.)

"You made sure he knew I wasn't fond of tomatoes?" Sherlock nodded and picked one of the grilled sandwiches from the plate. When he looked up at John, the older man was still smiling to the point of grinning.

"What?"

"Nothing. That was just… Nice of you." John dipped one of the cheese grills corners into the soup and ate it, licking his lips. They ate in silence, free hands finding eachother across the table at some point. They seemed to be moving by themselves; palms touching, fingers spacing out and interlacing, and sliding away eventually so they could both scrape the remainders of soup from the bottom of the dish.

Finally done and after a nice, pointless chat – Sherlock had moved to John's side – they decided it was time to move. Actually, it was more John's idea, Sherlock would have been contended enough to sit there all day, but John wanted to go for a nice walk (not to see Sherlock's bottom in those trousers, no of course not…) through the fields.

"Actually, John," Sherlock started, as they made their way away towards a large yellow-flowered field, "There is something I want to show you. I think you'll like it." They joined hands as they walked through the field, John almost tripping over a clump of grass at one point. Some of the flowers were just as tall as the doctor, and almost as tall as Sherlock save for a few inches.

They walked for about two minutes through that field before coming to smoother, rolling green fields with daisies scattered about. "You see that u-shape valley over there?" Sherlock pointed to the dipping hill in front of them.

"Yes?"

"Down the hill is a huge oak tree. Mycroft and I built a tree house in it when we were younger."

John had a hard time picturing Sherlock, even a young Sherlock, building and playing in a treehouse. For that matter, he had an even harder time picturing a young, dapper-on-a-much-smaller-scale Mycroft doing the same thing.

"Yes, I know it's a bit ridiculous. But we were children, John, and children sometimes do ridiculous things. In our case, it was building an overlarge tree house in an equally overlarge tree." As they came over another gentle swell of the hill John once more found his jaw on his chest. In the valley below stood an oak, just as Sherlock had said, and in the oak tree was what looked like a small condo. Nestled firmly in the branches, the making up the outside walls had weathered to a pleasant silver-grey and the whole thing had a very rustic, antiqued look about it.

"You and Mycroft built that?"

"Well, we had a bit of help hauling everything down here, but Mycroft and I did all the structural engineering ourselves." The detective sounded quite proud of himself, really, and John looked up to see a smug little smile on his face. "Took us three summers to put the lot together, working from lunch to dinner just about every day."

"It certainly doesn't look like something children would make! Maybe you should have been a builder, eh?" John smirked and poked his boyfriend lightly to show he was joking. At the top of the hill, John stopped and looked to Sherlock before looking pointedly back down towards the tree.

"Go on then." Sherlock chuckled, releasing John's hand and stepping to the side. John grinned and sat down on the soft grass, giving the soft fibres of green a testing run over with his hand.

"God, this is so childish. But…" John trailed off and his eyes had a mischievous, child-like impishness about them just as he lay on his side. Crossing his arms over his chest, the doctor swung his body over and let himself roll at full speed to the bottom of the hill. He stopped face down in a fit of giggles just before the tree. The giggling continued until Sherlock caught up and helped him to his feet with a small chuckle.

Calming down, John looked up at the looming tree. It seemed monstrously big up close, with its wide and spread out branches. "Right. How do we get up?" He asked, seeing no ladder anywhere.

"Climb." Sherlock replied casually, as if had just suggested walking down the stairs. When John blinked back incredulously, the detective rolled his eyes. "Like this." Placing his hands on the lowest branch (which was just about John's height), Sherlock quickly and rather gracefully swung up and onto the branch.

"Alright, let me try." John rubbed his hands together and bent his knees. Giving a little jump, he managed to grab onto the branch and wrap his arms around it, legs dangling.

"Pull yourself up." Sherlock was already making his way onto the next branch, looking catlike as he lithely landed in a sitting position. John muttered something about his own height and Sherlock's long limbs, but he managed to haul himself onto the branch. He didn't land as smoothly as Sherlock, though. Instead, he was lying on his stomach and scrabbling to his knees.

John managed to get onto the next branch with a bit more ease, and was close behind Sherlock now. The tree house was about five branches up, and by the time they both got onto the fifth branch, John was only slightly out of breath.

"This is the tricky bit." Sherlock gestured to the tree house; there was a three foot gap between the branch they were on and the next branch over to where the tree house was situated, near the centre of the tree. "You'll have to stretch your legs or jump. The former is a bit safer, though. I'm not sure if the wood is strong enough to take the force of a jump after all these years. Especially not after Mycroft jumping onto it as a child." The detective was trying desperately not to add 'because he was very heavy back then'.

"Right, I think I can just stretch across. Let me go first." John shimmied in front of Sherlock and, resting his hands on a random branch, reached his better leg forward. It reached the sort of porch area of the tree house (which had wooden fencing surrounding it!) The doctor thrust his body forward and landed just by the door. Sherlock followed a bit more balanced.

Sherlock led him inside the oversized tree house. By the one large window was a varnished wooden trunk chest. It served as a sort of window seat. It certainly didn't look like a child built this; the floorboards were so exact and neat, and there were no nails sticking out dangerously. On the far corner wall there was a little shelf, holding a plastic, yellow lidded box with small rectangular wooden blocks inside - jenga. A small, felt tip drawn picture of the stately home was stuck up with a thumb-tack over the shelf. It was obviously child-drawn, but so nicely drawn that the child who drew it must have been a very bored, genius, soon-to-be consulting detective.

"Do you like it?" Sherlock asked, and John smiled and nodded at the question.

"It's the best tree house I've ever seen. Better than the dog house that Harry and I used to crawl into in my old back garden."

"Well, it took three years to build. I would have liked to have slept in here but Mummy would never allow me." Sherlock shook his head and sat down on the ground.

"What's in that?" John pointed to the chest. Sherlock shrugged, and quickly changed the subject. "Come and sit down John. I'm sure it's locked anyway. One of Mycroft's ideas."

"Alright." John walked over to the shelf and took down the plastic box. "Play with me?" He sat down cross-legged across from Sherlock and poured the rectangular wooden blocks onto the ground. Sherlock smirked and John looked up. "What?"

"Will you play _my_ way?" The detective grabbed one of the blocks and twirled it around his fingers. John knew that tone of voice all too well.

"And how do _you _play jenga?"

"Well, there are certain rules. If you wobble the tower you have to kiss me. If I wobble the tower, I have to kiss you. But, whoever knocks down the tower has to do whatever the winner wants." Sherlock arched an eyebrow and started to make the jenga tower. "And no cheating, John."

"I don't cheat! And besides, I always win at jenga." He looked sort of smug. Even if the tower wobbled, it would definitely not be on purpose. And John was a very good jenga player…

* * *

><p><strong>Review replies:<strong>

**OnTheWinterSolstice – I will gladly accept your high five! Keep on being great, yo :D**

**Bbmcowgirl – The house is actually my RP partner's great imagination. I needed help with the imagery and viola, there it is! It could be based on a real one, though. **

**Chibiwolfgurl – They are cute, aren't they? Second favourite OTP, of course.**

**Pilikia18 – Thanks!**


	21. Kent part three

**Um, the rating has definitely gone up to M again, simply because I'm paranoid. I hope you like this chapter guys!**

**Thanks to Sam again!**

**Warning: Smutty, fluffy man-loving.**

**Disclaimer: I only own this plot, et cetera.**

* * *

><p>The game of Jenga started with John neatly building the tower. Sherlock just sat back, amused by how neat and precise his lover was being, with his tongue sticking out in concentration and brow furrowed by the time he reached the top.<p>

"Ready yet?" The detective quipped, arching an eyebrow at John.

"I'm always ready for Jenga." John sat back on his heels and took another look at it. "Right, the rules once more?"

"Whoever wobbles the tower has to kiss the other. And whoever knocks down the tower loses. That means," Sherlock laid down on his side, propping himself up with his forearm," the winner can pick anything they like to do with the loser."

"Even sexually?" John smirked and got into a comfy position on his knees.

"If you want, John. Like I said, anything." He watched John over the top of the tower, shifting again in an effort to get more comfortable.

"Right, I'll go first." Reaching forward towards the neatly structured tower, John nudged out a middle block and very slowly pulled it out. He didn't wobble it, though he really wouldn't have minded having done so considering the not unpleasant consequences, but wobbling meant potentially losing (not that that was a bad thing either, but John had to win. He had something he needed to do.)

Sherlock slid out one of the bottom blocks with ease, giving John a soft smile. He too was good at Jenga; it was more of a game of engineering logic than anything else, when you really thought about it. When John had almost all of his next block out, Sherlock sneezed (there was even a hint of a _smirk _as he did so) and caused the doctor to jump just a little. Of course the tower wobbled.

"Drat." John steadied the tower with his left hand, made sure it wasn't going to move topple over, and then crawled over to his lover's side. "I would call you a cheater but-"He kissed Sherlock, quickly but gently- "I have no proof." Instead of going back to his original position, he stayed by Sherlock's side, lounging and manoeuvring so they both had easy access to the Jenga blocks. One of Sherlock's long hands came up and rested lightly on John's hip, his thumb stroking over the soft fabric of his shirt.

Sherlock chuckled and took his next go. Yet again it was steady and smooth and when John _again_ wobbled the tower, he began to lose faith in his abilities. After a few more minutes, Sherlock was still winning, having only wobbled the tower three times whereas John wobbled it about seven. The tower, though, was becoming steadily taller and gaps were in almost all of the middle section. It looked about ready to topple over at a breath.

"I didn't know you were this good." John muttered, taking a break to tuck a stray curl behind Sherlock's ear.

"Soldiers are not the only ones with steady hands, John."

"I suppose not. Still…" He took his go again and this time successfully managed not to wobble it. "I think I'll give you a kiss for the hell of it." And so he leaned down to Sherlock again and kissed him long and slow. It seems the game was forgotten for the minute, as the kiss rapidly heated up. Sherlock's hands roamed up John's jumper while John's moved down to the detective's thigh, teasing at the skin-tight fabric of his jodhpurs.

"Mmph, John wait." Sherlock gently pushed his lover back and sat up. "We need to finish the game first." His cheeks were flushed and he was slightly breathless.

"Alright." John chuckled and sat back. "In that case, it's your go."

Sherlock cleared his throat and sat onto his knees. He was quite disoriented from the kiss, it seemed, because for one with such a steady hand throughout the game his next move was fatal; just as he pushed the block of wood out, it nudged against one of the other pieces, causing the whole thing to come tumbling down in a heap.

"I won?" John snorted in surprise. "I actually won against Sherlock Holmes." Sherlock sighed at the heap of tumbled wooden blocks but turned to John to give him a warm smile. The doctor just seemed so proud of himself.

"Well, if memory serves me correctly John, you did say you _always _win at Jenga."

"Always as a child. It's been years." John smiled back and stood up, offering his hand out to Sherlock. "I do believe I get to pick what we do."

"That would be correct, _Doctor Watson_." Sherlock took his hand and was helped to his feet. He wrapped his arms around John's waist and pressed his body so teasingly close to his boyfriend's, pressing a small kiss to the soft spot of skin just behind his ear. "And what would that be?"

Of course John wasn't going to say it now. But he had won, and it was his chance to make everything better, or so he hoped. "Well, that's going to be a surprise now, isn't it?"

"Mm. _Good_."

Backing up to the wall of the large tree house, John kissed Sherlock again and slid down, bringing his lover with him. The heat from outside was making the tree house quite stuffy and unbearably hot. John's hands roamed up Sherlock's shirt, picking the buttons open as he did so. The detective pulled back just to let it slide off his shoulders and slip his hand under John's jumper to pull it off. He pushed John onto the floor and pressed his body against him while they kissed feverishly, chests pressed skin to skin. John even had to stifle a moan when they grinded against eachother.

"This isn't," _kiss, _"what," _kiss, _"I had in mind." _Kiss. _John fought for air between sloppy, slightly desperate kisses, moving both of them into a sitting position with the detective's legs either side of his hips.

"In that case," _kiss to the neck, _"we should probably stop, as antagonizing as the thought,"_kiss back on the lips, _"really is."

After a few more kisses and even the makings of a love bite on John's neck, they finally untangled their limbs. It seemed they had been in the tree house quite a while, for the sun was no longer shining in on them through the small window.

"Jesus, we've been here a good few hours." John put back on his jumper and handed Sherlock his shirt (though those jodhpurs looked so good paired with his bare chest and not a stitch else).

"Time flies when you're having fun." Sherlock winked and dressed quickly, not bothering to do up the buttons all the way, thus leaving a very tantalizing V of creamy skin on show. He stepped out onto the "porch" of the tree house and breathed in the evening air, hands lightly on his hip. "I think we should go back to the house for a while. Maybe play with the cats in the sunroom?"

"Sounds good." John noticed something hesitant in his lover's voice and when he came out to join him, rested his head on his good shoulder. "What's up?"

"Hm? Nothing." Sherlock waved his comments away and gestured to the branches below. "Come on, the sooner we get back the sooner we can enjoy ourselves." John didn't really understand that, but shrugged anyway; you just got used to strange comments when you lived with Sherlock Holmes. Even more so when you were in a strong relationship with one.

Getting down proved a lot easier than climbing up, with John's military training coming through. He actually reached the ground before Sherlock did, finally having – in his mind - matched his lover's abilities. They walked back arm in arm, even falling over in the long grass at one point. If It had been earlier in the day, they probably would have just stayed there. But Sherlock's general dislike of lying in a possibly bug-filled grass just made them giggle and continue on to the stately Victorian house.

"Sherlock, you go on up. I just need to use the loo." John stopped just at the bottom of the stairs. When Sherlock gave him that 'I know you're up to something and I'm secretly trying to deduce it out of you' look, John rolled his eyes. "Look, I won't be long. I…" He paused, licking his lips. "I love you. Now go on."

Smiling, thought without losing the suspicious look, Sherlock brought John close for a slow, gentle kiss. "… I love you too. And I'll be waiting." After touching their noses together once, Sherlock turned on his heels and went up the stairs. John stood silently watching him for a few minutes with a grin on his face. That had been the first time they had said 'I love you' to each other since Moriarty took Sherlock away. Shuddering at the memory, John turned away and made for his destination. It was the bathroom, but not necessarily to use the loo.

On the way, he quietly asked Dorian the butler how to start up the hot-tub. Unlike the shyer maids, Dorian was quite calm and helpful, going as far as to show John what every button did and how to turn it off. John thanked him and when he left, went about setting up the bathroom.

"Sherlock?" John called up the stairs and waited until Sherlock appeared at the banister, the top few buttons of his shirt still undone and his riding jacket tossed loosely around his shoulders. He looked quite handsome, standing up there with his hands lightly on the banister. Mister Darcy came to mind, suddenly, and John smiled inwardly.

"Yes? Aren't you coming up?"

"No, you come down here. I want to show you something." Sherlock raised an eyebrow but shrugged, descending the stairs anyway. John took his hand and led him towards the bathroom, giving it a little squeeze as he stopped outside the door. Emily passed them on the way. She gave them a little smile and a wink and handed John the key to the bathroom door. The inside was lit only by tea light candles; on the ledge of the hot tub, the shelves, some of the floor and any other available stands were littered with the things, bathing the entire room in a subtle golden glow. The hot tub was slowly bubbling and the inner lights illuminated the water a light, cool blue. A small ice bucket with champagne was sitting on the floor beside two tall champagne glasses.

"Oh wow." Sherlock breathed, as John closed and locked the door behind them. Turning to the detective, John gave him a sheepish smile and actually blushed a little.

"I know you've had a shower already today but-"

"Yes, John." Sherlock chuckled. "I'll get into the hot-tub with you. You've already set everything up and it would be such a shame to see all that work go to waste."

John just sort of nodded and turned to close and lock the door behind them. By the time he turned around again, Sherlock had already stripped out of his coat and shirt and was laying them over the towel bar on the far wall. He tried not to stare, really he did, but in the soft gold candlelight the lean detective looked utterly perfect. Even the brand on the back of his shoulder looked softer and less harsh. The former army doctor had to give himself a shake before he remembered to undress as well.

Leaving his clothes in a neatly folded pile beside the door, he joined Sherlock in the tub. He hadn't noticed the detective folding himself into the hot tub, but judging by the blissful look on Sherlock's face he had been there for a few minutes at least.

It took a bit of clever rearranging to get the both of them into the tub, but John finally wound up with Sherlock's slender ankles draped over his thighs, one foot hanging loose and the other resting lightly on his stomach. The detective had hardly moved since he sat down in the water except to lay his feet where they now were. He didn't even open his eyes until John shifted to uncap the bottle of champagne and pour it into the two flutes. Even after being uncorked for a bit (to keep from fighting with a corkscrew in the bath, of course) it was still pleasantly bubbly and created a nice white foam on the top of it.

He leaned forward to pass one glass to Sherlock, their fingers brushing briefly as the detective took the drink. "To us," John said softly, "and to your swift recovery."

Sherlock smiled warmly at him and took a slow sip of his champagne, making a bit of a queer face at the bubbles. Even growing up a Holmes, he still wasn't used to the sensation of the tiny bubbles in the sparkling wine. He set his glass down on the rim of the tub, his fingers barely letting go before he gave a sharp start.

Like most hot tubs, this one came equipped with bubble jets, and John's turning them on had made Sherlock jump and flush slightly before moving to the left a couple inches. John just smirked lightly at him. To think the usually one step ahead Sherlock hadn't considered bubble jets when he sat down. Obviously trying to make it seem like the jets hadn't bothered him, he picked up his glass of champagne again and finished off most of it.

"Sherlock."

The detective gave a little start, his glass halfway to his mouth, and flicked his eyes over to John. "Yes?"

"We did agree that whoever won the Jenga game could have whatever they wanted." His own glass had been empty for a bit now, and he set it down on the floor outside the tub.

"Yes, that was the agreement. Isn't this what you wanted?"

"Partly." Shifting in the tub, he slid a hand up Sherlock's leg to settle on his knee. "Sit on the edge of the tub, won't you love?"

Sherlock eyed him warily, but he put his glass down on the floor and levered himself out of the water. It rolled off him in sheets, some spilling onto the floor but most of it sliding back into the hot tub. His long hands curled over the edge of the tub and his knees were pressed tight together. John fixed that quickly, of course, pushing his knees apart so he could settle in the water between Sherlock's calves.

"Perfect."

"John, you could have anything you want-"

"This _is_ what I want, Sherlock." After a long moment, the detective nodded and leaned back slightly.

John had a point to prove, of course, this wasn't just an excuse to have sex with Sherlock in the bath. Though that _was_ a good idea, and something he'd have to remember for later. But for now... His point.

Starting at the top edge of the water, which now rested just below Sherlock's knees, he let his fingers glide slowly upward. The detective watched him as closely as ever, his eyes slightly narrowed, but he made no move to stop his lover. John shifted forward, his knees pressed against the side of the tub now, and slid his hands still higher. A quick glance up at the detective's face showed that his eyes were a bit wider, his pupils already dilating. Good, so he understood.

John's thumbs were stroking lightly over the baby-fine skin on the insides of Sherlock's thighs by now, creeping steadily higher.

"John."

"Sherlock, do shut up. _Please_." Leaning in, he let his mouth trace the path that his thumb had followed, ghosting over that line of impossibly soft skin. Sherlock's pulse thrummed against his mouth, already fluttering and faster than normal. Above his head, the detective sucked in a sharp breath of air. That sharp inhale turned into very shallow, very quiet panting as john's mouth trailed still higher over that line of skin.

By the time he got to where Sherlock so _clearly_ wanted him to be, the detective was already hard and straining upward against his stomach. John smirked up at him, though his smirk faded a little when he got a good look at his lover's face. His cheeks were flushed pink, his pupils blown so wide that his eyes were more black than silver, and his mouth hung very slightly open.

"S-so this is what you wanted?" Sherlock wet his lips, his hands curled tightly on the edge of the tub.

"Mhmm."

"N-not what I expected-oh!" He trailed off, his eyes fluttering shut, as John's hand curled around his member. His silence didn't last long, though, since his lover's hand was quickly joined by his mouth. Sherlock let out a breathy, wanton little moan and leaned forward; if he had leaned the other way, he would have tumbled backwards onto the floor.

Sherlock's hands found themselves on John's head, grasping helplessly at the little tufts of hair as John went down on him. John may have been a novice with the whole serious relationship with a man thing, but he was far from being a novice at giving blowjobs. His tongue expertly licked up from the base of Sherlock's penis to the tip, giving a delicious little flick of his tongue right where the sensitive part was.

Whatever Sherlock was going to say next was cut off by a choking sound in the back of his neck, mixed in with a broken up moan. His eyes fluttered shut and John raised his head to see one of the most erotic looks gracing his lover's features; lips parted with a full flush of red on his cheeks, inhaling and exhaling loudly. Smirking, John took all of Sherlock's length back into his mouth.

Sherlock was at this stage shuddering, making guttural moaning noises and leaning full forwards with his hands now resting on John's shoulders. John continued to bob up and down, using his tongue to flick at the most sensitive spots, and using his free hand to fondle his balls gently. Then he moved onto another technique. Moving his mouth to the tip of Sherlock's length, he used his hand to stroke up from the base. At the same time, his mouth moved down until it met his hand somewhere in the middle, licking up pre-cum as he did so. He repeated the process until Sherlock was right on the edge of shouting John's name. John couldn't help but feeling very aroused, with his own penis stood proud against his stomach. The bubbles from the hot-tub's jets were taking care of that, though, in a _very_ pleasing way.

"J-Joh-Hnng-" Sherlock sobbed out his lover's name when John went all the way down, taking in every last part of his length until there was only his balls left on show. It took only a few more seconds (with John sucking and using the back of his throat) until the detective came with a loud groan. He spilled into John's mouth, body going rigid as he released, and John took it all without even flinching. Moving his mouth up and licking off any remains of cum, John gave the head a final delicate flick before releasing Sherlock with an audible 'pop'.

There was a moment of silent panting on Sherlock's behalf, his body slack and hair damp from both perspiration and water. John took a second to take care of himself under the water and came with a soft moan. Right now, neither of them cared about John's semen in the water; it would get rid of itself in a few moments.

"You okay?" He asked Sherlock, who was staring down at his legs. His gaze finally settled on John. In answer to John's question, he all but launched himself at his lover, knocking them both back into the water while tangled in a ferocious kiss. The water made a small wave and some of it splashed out onto the edge and the surrounding floor, even extinguishing a few of the tea-light candles. Sherlock could taste both himself and John in John's mouth as they kissed; far from gentle, being a tangle of tongues and lips. They landed on their bottoms in the middle of the hot-tub, up to their chests in hot water. They didn't care, though.

They finally broke for air a few minutes later. Sherlock's arms had wound themselves around John's waist and he shifted (without breaking the contact) to sit down properly. After a bit of shifting around, they finally settle with Sherlock sitting back and John sitting between his open legs. Their hands were connected and resting on John's stomach. He had done it; John had proven to Sherlock that he could trust him again. He was not, was never, and never will be Jim Moriarty. He would never hurt his Sherlock.

"I love you." Said John, with a little smile as he tipped his head back to rest on Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock leaned his head down and lightly kissed the broken skin where John's scar was, brushing his lips over it very softly.

"Love you too, John." He murmured, kissing up from the scar until his lips were pressed against John's temple.

* * *

><p><strong>Shameless blowjob. I had to.<strong>


	22. Kent part four

***NOTE: I had to make some slight changes towards the end, just for the sake of this fic***

**The last part in the Kent chapters. Hope you enjoy it. Review replies at the bottom.**

**Warning: Smut and fetishes in this chapter. **

**Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to the BBC. I only own this plot, and my OC's etc.**

* * *

><p><em>Hands find their way to Sherlock's throat. At first the detective smiles, thinking it is John and that the hands will slide lovingly downwards, only to be replaced by a pair of thin, soft lips and a sweet tongue.<em>

_But that doesn't happen. Sherlock doesn't recognise these hands. They're not the same. No, John's hands are worn from the war but there's a hint of softness in them. These hands are too soft, too small, and too thin to be John's. The nails that rake his jugular with an oddly delicate touch are manicured and slightly pointed at the tip. No, these are most definitely __**not **__John's._

_Fear begins to bubble in his gut. Who is this? Why are the hands so familiar, yet so unnerving and unwelcome? Why is skin burning under the touch in the worst possible way? Why can he suddenly not breathe? Where is the oxygen, the sweet, life-giving oxygen that Sherlock needs to breathe, where has it gone?_

_Moriarty…_

_There is no more time for questions, because now the only thing running through his mind as he is allowed to breathe is JOHN. FEAR. JOHN. PANIC. JOHN. It only enters his mind briefly that the hands are no longer around his neck before they are being replaced by something cold. The cold thing is pulled tight and takes away what little oxygen the detective has left…_

"Sherlock!" John's voice finally broke through the veil of unconsciousness that lay over Sherlock. He must have stopped breathing in his sleep, because his sudden intake of breath followed by his spluttering cough made him almost double over.

"Sherlock, love, it's alright. It was just a nightmare-"

"John!" Sherlock wheezed out his lover's name, turning so he could launch himself into his lover's strong arms. John could feel the dampness of perspiration from Sherlock's skin sticking to his, mixed in with the fresh hot tears. He put his arms around Sherlock and rocked slowly back and forth.

"John… I could feel him. Feel his hands around my neck…" Sherlock's breathing was ragged and John just held him closer, turning so their bodies were touching. It was the first nightmare Sherlock had had since coming to Kent. After two weeks of recovery, they both thought he wouldn't be subject to one.

"Shh. Sherlock, he's gone. He's not here. It's just you and me and nobody else." He pitched his voice to a whisper, speaking as much to the side of Sherlock's head as anything else. John carded his fingers through Sherlock's damp curls with one hand and soothed his shuddering back with the other. "Look at me."

Sherlock leaned his head back enough so John could get a good look at him; his stormy eyes were wet and his cheeks lined with glossy tear-tracks. John took his face between his hands, using his thumbs to wipe away the tears. "Listen to me. He can't hurt you. Nobody is going to let him get you again. Not Lestrade, not Mycroft and especially not me. So take a few deep breaths and just know that I love you. I will never stop loving you."

Sherlock nodded, gulping down hard and taking a few deep breaths as he was told. His lanky body relaxed somewhat and he allowed himself to be taken in John's strong embrace once more. "Thank you, John." He whispered, as they lay back down. He shifted to that one leg was thrown over John's hip and their bodies tucked close together, his cheek resting over the steady thump-thump of John's heartbeat. "I love you."

John pressed a kiss to the top of Sherlock's hair, nuzzling him and humming a low tune that Sherlock recognised as Greensleeves.

* * *

><p>The next day Sherlock was feeling much better. In John's arms, the detective had had no more nightmares. They had slept in shamelessly long, not budging from their beds until well after 2 p.m. Emily had been kind enough to send them up tea and croissants around midmorning, freshly baked New York style by Rory.<p>

When they finally did rise, they went to the sunrooms to play with the cats. Bitsy had taken up residence in the Classical Studies bookshelf, nestling herself on the top of thick Greek volumes with one paw and the end of her fluffy tail hanging over the edge. Tobias, being more like a Holmes than a cat, had claimed the back of the white loveseat as his own and was currently stretched out along the back of it.

"Sherlock?" John put down the Atlas he had been browsing through to look over at his lover, who was tucked up in an armchair reading what looked to be an original copy of Ulysses.

"Yes, John?" John scraped his chair back and stood up, patting a yawning Tobias on his way over to Sherlock.

"Do you remember when I won the game of Jenga, and that I could choose anything I wanted?"

"… Yes, of course. But… You already chose, love, two weeks ago in the hot-tub."

John smiled slightly and went to his knees beside Sherlock's armchair. "Do you not remember me saying that was _partly_ what I wanted?"

Sherlock thought for a moment before nodding, vague confusion crossing his features at that point. "What is it, John?"

"Well… I want to do something. But I need some time to prepare for it." John put a hand on Sherlock's knee and squeezed. "I need to go into town. Alone."

"Oh… Well in that case take the car down in the garage. Dorian will drive you. Can I ask what it is you're doing?"

"Proving a point. Look, trust me with this, love." He stood up and kissed Sherlock lightly. "I won't be long." Sherlock waved that away and pulled John down for another kiss.

"Take your time. Go back home and visit Mrs. Hudson for a while. I… I think I know what it is your doing. If that's the case, I need time to prepare too." Sherlock smiled with sudden understanding and took John's hand. The doctor returned the smile and squeezed the detective's pale hand once before letting go.

"Alright. I'll see you this evening, then." With a nod from Sherlock, John turned around. He didn't expect to feel the little pinch to his bottom as he did so and when he gasped, Sherlock's chuckle was audible. Not that John minded. Smirking, he shot his lover a wink and left to find Dorian.

* * *

><p>John spent a few hours back in London, picking up a few things that would be a necessity tonight; lube, for one, and something <em>extra<em> as a surprise. That something extra was the hardest part, for John, and involved rather a bit of wandering about the aisles looking very poleaxed and trying to decide what flavour went with Sherlock's natural taste the best.

For a while he got lost in the London shops. Kent was lovely and completely relaxing, but nothing could compare to the feeling of _home _when it came to London. Baker Street was just around the corner.

After spending a good time browsing around music shops and clothes shops (even buying a new jumper for himself and a new pair of jeans for Sherlock – he didn't have many jeans), John decided he should check in on Mrs. Hudson like Sherlock suggested. Stopping off at the little bakery near their apartment, John picked up a few scones and cream buns for their landlady.

He knocked three times on the familiar door of 221B and waited patiently outside for the elderly landlady to answer.

When she did so, it seemed to take her a second to recognise John, but as soon as realisation struck, she threw her arms around him.

"John, dear!" John hugged back and smiled, looking over her shoulder and into the familiar halls of home. "Come in, come in! Oh, it's so nice to see you!"

"Nice to see you too Mrs. H. I'm not here for long, though." John stepped in and allowed the landlady to fuss over him. She led them into her own sitting room and sat him down.

"So where's Sherlock? I do hope he's eating, dear."

"He's just resting up. We're in Kent for a while." John put the box of baked goods on the table and accepted her offering of a cup of tea. Her part of the flat was a little brighter than John and Sherlock's upstairs, and he settled himself down in an armchair with a subtle floral print on the upholstery.

"The country is doing you good, John," she said, when she came back with two white china cups of tea and sat down in a chair across from him. "Though I do wish Sherlock would have come along with you. I would dearly like to see him and make sure he's doing alright. I know how difficult he can be sometimes."

"I think the country is doing him some good too. Despite everything he seems to be doing really well." He nudged the box that he'd picked up at the bakery toward her, and earned himself another round of pleased gushing. He had to take one of them for himself to make her quiet down and sit back in her chair. "Been catching up on his reading, too, I think."

"Oh, that's good to hear. And your darling little cats, how are they?"

"Just fine. I think they like the sunroom up there much better than they like the flat here. More windows, you see."

John sipped his tea in silence for a moment, occasionally tearing a bit off his scone and dunking it into his tea. Eventually, Mrs Hudson sighed and looked up at him. "When are you coming home, John? This house is much too big and lonely without you and Sherlock."

John stared down at his cup of tea, not really sure what to say to that. "Not until we get the go ahead from the Yard, I suppose. I mean, you're not in any danger here but it's _Sherlock_, and you know how he attracts mishaps and misfortune like flies to a rotting sandwich."

Mrs Hudson nodded and set her teacup aside. "Well, I'll keep the rooms open for you. Half of his things are up there still anyway."

"Thanks, Mrs Hudson." He finished off his own tea and the last of his scone before setting down the cup. "I'd best be going. Sherlock was hoping to have me home before dinner."

"Of course, dear." She showed him out to the door, taking him by the shoulders and kissing him on the cheek as he went to leave. "Do keep an eye on Sherlock."

He nodded and gave her a quick one-armed hug before ducking out the door and into the car that Dorian had waiting.

* * *

><p>Sherlock tried to spend his afternoon in a constructive fashion. He finished the chapter that he had been reading in his book, had a bit of lunch, fed the cats, and raided the house for candles. Most of them had been used up in John's little stunt two weeks ago, but he found some white and blue tapers and a handful of white pillar candles. Finding holders wasn't hard, but finding places in the bedroom to set them all was. Most of them ended up lined up along the windowsills (after he took the curtains down and tucked them away in the wardrobe) with a couple more on each nightstand. He didn't light them yet; it was still very early in the evening and if he lit them now they would have burnt down by the time John got home.<p>

He ran a load of washing as well, with some help from one of the maids, and borrowed a pair of black silk scarves from another. He promised to pay her back for them, as they would be in no fit state to be returned when they were done with them. The maid blushed furiously and waved it off.

The scarves went upstairs with him around midafternoon, and Sherlock left the key to the bedroom with one of the maids, telling her he was not to be disturbed and that John was to be given the key when he came home.

With that, he locked the door behind him, lit the candles, changed into his jodhpurs and not a stitch else, and managed (somehow) to get one of the silk scarves around both wrists and around one of the bars of the headboard. He was rather good at knots, but not when his own limbs were involved, and he nearly dislocated a finger getting the knots tight. Then he inched up the bed toward the headboard to wait for John to come home.

Which wasn't long, really, considering he had to go all the way to London and back. Sherlock was still on the point of dozing off when he heard footsteps coming up the corridor to his room and heard the key turn in the lock.

"Sherlock, why on earth have you locked yourself in... Oh."

"Surprise?"

Apparently the sight of Sherlock stretched out on the bed, hands bound to the headboard, in nothing but a pair of unbuttoned khaki jodhpurs was either too much or not quite enough for John. Instead of leaping onto the bed and taking advantage of the situation, John quite calmly set down his shopping bag and took off hs coat. The coat went into the wardrobe, and John sat down near the foot of the bed.

"Yes, this is a surprise. Not what I was expecting to come home to, actually. Still nice, though." His gaze flicked to the silk scarf binding the detective's hands to the head of the bed and back to Sherlock, who was lying quite still on the coverlet. "I brought a little surprise of my own, actually, if you're interested."

"Y-yes, of course. This _is_ supposed to be about what you want, after all." John chuckled a bit and reached into the shopping bag, finally straightening up and putting a small plastic container on Sherlock's stomach. The detective craned his neck to peer down at it. "Really, John? Edible caramel body paint?"

"Well, yes. I thought it was interesting, and this _is_ part of my reward for beating you at Jenga..." John trailed a finger over the slight 'V' of Sherlock's hipbone, watching the detective's skin shiver under the touch. "Of course, it's just a suggestion, and I have the receipt to return it if you _really_ don't like it..." He trailed off, his finger running back up Sherlock's hip.

Sherlock cast another slilghtly wary-slightly curious look down at the plastic tub and paintbrush sitting on his stomach. "Well... I suppose it would be unfair if I said no. It seems like it would be very messy though, John..."

"Oh, the mess won't be a problem. It's edible, after all." Shifting back on the bed to sit cross-legged near Sherlock's feet, John picked up the small plastic tub to read the suggestions printed on the sides. "Well, it reccommends warming it up, but I don't feel like going all the way downstairs to heat it up. I hope you don't mind it being a little cold." The detective shrugged a little, as much as he could with his hands bound above his head, and watched as John tore off the plastic covering with his fingernails. The paintbrush was set lightly down on Sherlock's shin as John fought with the lid of the tub. That, too, eventually came off, and even from Sherlock's distance he could smell the almost sickly-sweet odour of caramel.

"A bit strong," John muttered, setting the plastic container on the footboard between two of Sherlock's candles. Leaving it there, he got off the end of the bed in order to strip down to just his underwear. He had a feeling that if the paint got on anything but skin it was going to be next to impossible to remove.

Sherlock was honestly more excited to have John mostly naked than he was about being covered in potentially sticky, overly sweet caramel. Still, it _would_ be John licking the stuff off him and that wasn't an unpleasant thought. So he lay very still as John sat on the edge of the bed beside him, took up the plastic tub and paintbrush, and set to work.

It wasn't as bad as Sherlock expected; the brush was a bit ticklish, but the body paint wasn't all that sticky when it first went on. It did dry rapidly, however, and John seemed to find the need to layer the stuff in places. The former doctor worked his way over Sherlock's body with an intense concentration, his brow furrowed and his tongue poking out lightly. That in and of itself was amusing, and the detective found himself stifling the occasional chuckle as John worked.

His chuckle turned into a sharp moan when John lowered his head and licked the first strip of caramel off the skin below Sherlock's navel. He was very thorough about it, and the stripe of sin was tinged faintly pink by the time he lifted his head and moved onto the line of the detective's hip. Each stripe of caramel was treated with the same care and the same determination, and by the time John had worked his way upward to the layered bits on Sherlock's chest the detective was a quivering, moaning mess. Getting the layered paint off was more of a job, and involved as much nibbling as anything else.

John finally sat up, licking the last bits of caramel off his mouth and glancing down at Sherlock. The detective was watching him with wide eyes, his pupils so blown with lust that there was only a very thin rim of stormy grey-blue around them. Neither of them had really noticed, but all that nibbling and licking in the name of getting the caramel off had gotten Sherlock almost painfully hard.

And really, what sort of man was John Watson to pass up _that_ opportunity? With the way Sherlock had laid himself out, John could picture where Sherlock had imagined the evening going. John swiftly removed Sherlock's jodhpurs and tossed them off the bed altogether. The surprise that flitted over his face as the former doctor straddled his hips. "John?"

"Just trust me, Sherlock."

"But John!"

John leaned down to kiss him and shut him up. That proved shockingly effective, actually, and kissing the detective was enough to distract him while John found the lube. Spreading a dollop of it on his fingers, the former doctor quickly and matter-of-factly stretched himself out. He couldn't stop from making a small sound into Sherlock's mouth, which made the detective pull his head back and stare up at his lover in surprise. When his eyes trailed down to John's hand and what it was doing at that point, realisation hit.

"Oh…" He cleared his throat. "Oh right." John shut him up again with another kiss, and finished stretching himself out; it wasn't often that Sherlock was the one inside John (actually, this will have been the second time since they got together.) John pressed his fingers in farther and finally reached his prostate, rubbing his fingers over the bundle of nerves carefully and moaning into Sherlock's mouth.

"I'm ready, Sherlock. Are you?" The detective had been unconsciously arching up his hips and pressing into John, and by now he couldn't have been more ready than anything. He wanted so badly to touch John, but his hands were bound above his head and that seemed to have caused some very excited tingling below, and he was painfully hard. It certainly had been too long. Nodding, he allowed John to line him up.

"_Fuck."_ John gasped, lowering himself onto Sherlock, using one of his lubed up hands to slick up the base of Sherlock's erection and make the access just a little bit easier. He settled down again and paused to give them both enough time to adjust.

"M-move John…" Sherlock let out a breath he hadn't been aware that he'd been holding and tugged at the scarves tying his wrist, desperate to touch his lover. The former doctor nodded and shifted his hips forward, closing his eyes as he did so. The feeling of Sherlock inside him was as glorious as it had been the first time, and soon enough he was setting a rhythm of his own; rolling, lifting, setting down. His left hand was keeping him up, splayed beside Sherlock's mass of curls on the bed, and his right hand was pumping his own erection. Sherlock thrust up as much as he could in his current position, moaning softly in pleasure. It was like sweet cake after months of a diet.

"John!" Sherlock's head tipped back, his back arching up slightly off the bed and his eyes fluttering closed. John leaned forward, still keeping his pace, and sucked softly on his lover's jawline, pulling louder and even more desperate near-climax groans from the detective's mouth. His thrusts gained a quicker pace and, from the half-syllable cries of Sherlock's name, John was getting very close.

"Ngh, Sherlock-" John squeezed his hand tighter around himself, giving a few tugs and finally releasing onto Sherlock's chest. His head dropped into the crook of Sherlock's neck and he continued to ride the detective until he too came with a guttural, shuddering cry that echoed around the bedroom. His orgasm was made stronger by the fact he couldn't hold on to John.

John levered himself off Sherlock (who whimpered slightly at the loss of heat) and all but collapsed onto him with a "sorry". His cheek rested just over the detective's heartbeat, which was racing, and the skin there was moist with perspiration. A few quiet moments of soft panting passed by, before Sherlock cleared his throat again. John raised his head and looked questioningly at his lover, who gestured with his eyes to his bound hands.

"Oh, right, sorry." John sat up on his knees and unknotted the scarves, brow furrowing in concentration when he tried to undo a particularly skilfully tied knot. _How _Sherlock managed such elegant knots by himself (and most likely with one hand and his teeth) John would never know. His lover was so full of surprises sometimes.

"Thanks." Sherlock let his arms fall down to his sides, flexing his wrists and rubbing at them.

"I hope they weren't too tight."

"John please, I tied them myself."

"Right yeah." The former army doctor lay down on his stomach beside Sherlock and rested his head in his arms.

They watched each other for a while, and Sherlock eventually lay down beside John. "I trust you, John."

"I love you."

"I love you too." They shared a quick kiss and Sherlock idly traced patterns on the base of John's back. John watched his eyes go from lazy and post-coital to curiosity. He felt Sherlock's index finger prodding the small of his back and he rolled onto his side.

"What?"

"You… You have back dimples." Sherlock smirked and traced the very feint dimples. "I never noticed before."

"Oh yeah. They've been there since I was a baby I was told." John pulled a face. "They're weird looking."

"No, they're cute. Adorable, actually." Sherlock smiled at John and shimmied down the bed. He kissed the dimples lightly and John gasped, stifling laughter by pressing his face into the pillow under him.

"I didn't know you were ticklish there, John."

"Neither did I!"

"I'll have to keep that noted." John peered back to see that usual mischievous smirk on his lover's face. He rolled his eyes and pulled him back up so they were eye level.

"Very funny." John yawned. Sherlock pressed closer and nuzzled their noses together. He shared John's body heat and yanked the duvet over them.

"Thank you." He whispered into John's neck, as John's fingers carded through his mussed up dark curls.

"For what?" John asked, cuddling Sherlock.

"For everything. For being here… For saving me." He swallowed and John's arms tightened protectively around Sherlock, pressing a kiss to the top of his hair.

"Always."

* * *

><p>It had been almost three weeks since they arrived at the estate in Kent, and it would soon be one month since Sherlock and John first got together. In the weeks they spent out in the countryside and away from Baker Street, neither of them could disagree that it had made their relationship stronger and the bond they shared deeper. Not after the way things turned out. If anyone else had gone through the same hellish few nights as Sherlock in the clutches of Moriarty, the psychological effects would have bitten a lot deeper. But then again, nobody else had a John Watson by their side to rid them of the damage. Nobody else had a boyfriend who was a former soldier, a doctor, and a best friend. And for that reason, nobody else would have forgotten the events by the time the second week was over. Well, it's not that Sherlock had <em>forgotten,<em> but more like he had gotten distracted even without his usual load of cases from Scotland Yard. Spending time with his John was much more important than fretting over a psychopath that would never be able to do such a monstrous thing again; not while John was around. And John would make sure of that.

It was a relatively overcast day when they finally talked about going home.

"You're improving." Sherlock called from in front of John, panting slightly as they slowed down.

"I'll never be as brilliant as you. You look absolutely glorious straddling with that body." The words spewed from John's lips before he had the chance to stop them, and he quickly raised a hand up to cover his mouth. Sherlock spluttered a laugh and reined Last Enemy to a stop, backing him up a few steps in the process. He waited until John had walked Starter for Ten beside him and gave his lover a little smile.

"Well, I know how much you like these jodhpurs, love. And I must say you look rather dashing in your own pair." Sherlock nodded down to John's legs, which were clad in perfect-fitting black jodhpurs – courtesy of Mycroft. How the man knew his trouser size was something John didn't feel like asking about, or trying to figure out.

The doctor had insisted that Sherlock was the only one who could pull off the khaki ones with the loose white shirt (both of which made the detective look like he stepped right out of a period drama), and that black would suit his own legs better. John's top-half was in a green hoodie with the sleeves rolled up past his elbows, making him look very much like the student accompanying the teacher. Which, in a way, he was.

"Right, should we bring these in?" Last Enemy's head was hanging and he was champing at the bit. The clouds that hung in the sky were darkening and neither of them wanted to be caught out in the rain. John nodded and, using what Sherlock had taught him, got down from Starter for Ten in a very professional manner.

"It's too bad we don't have our own horses in London." John smiled and patted down his horse, waiting for Sherlock to dismount his own.

"I'm sure there's riding arena's scattered about, love." Sherlock handed the horses over to Darryl the stable boy, who insisted on bringing them in. "But speaking of home…"

"Yeah. I know what you mean." John took the taller man's hand and they made their way down the trail and back to the main house. "I miss it too. This is lovely and, to be fair, I wouldn't mind staying here longer. But Mrs. Hudson misses us and I'm sure the Yard miss you."

Sherlock snorted. "I don't think Sally or Anderson miss me at all. So… Should we go home?"

"Tomorrow we'll start packing. Let's enjoy our last night here with a nice dinner and a bath."

"I'll let Mycroft know tonight so he can arrange to pick us up whenever we decide to leave. Hey John?"

"Wha-" John was cut off by a pair of familiar, warm, full lips on his.

* * *

><p><strong>chibiwolfgurl – Yes, he WAS sexually traumatized. That's why it's taken him two weeks to go all the way with John :P<strong>

**bbmcowgirl – Yes, it really was a 'hot tub' scene, hehe!**

**OnTheWinterSolstice – Haha NICE pun ^^ Thank you dearie.**


	23. Silver Band

**Sherlock Pre-Note: Hey all you people. Forgive the unrealistic timeline that will be portrayed in this chapter. And I apologize, as beta, for the odd jumps in time that crop up now and again. Approximate time frame from the beginning of "Can I Test Something?" to the end of this chapter is 4.5 months, as near as I can guess.**

**Author's note: Thanks to Sherlock for being a patient beta and friend, and putting up with the mistakes. *chapter is just re-uploaded for a minor mistake fixing***

* * *

><p>John rolled over in the bed so he was facing Sherlock. The detective mumbled something incoherent in his sleep and scrunched his eyes tighter shut. His hair had grown in the six or so weeks spent in Kent (he had lost track of the time in the blissful days), and John couldn't help noticing how adorably the curls fell around his face and over one side of his forehead. In the days that Sherlock spent reading in the library, or riding alone in the fields, John had been doing some preparation behind his back; something really special. Perhaps a bit rushed and impulsive, but that was how life was with Sherlock Holmes.<p>

Reaching out his hand, John stroked Sherlock's nose with his index finger.

"Wake up, love." He whispered, blowing out a light breath. The ticklish downward strokes of John's finger from the bridge to tip of his nose, and John's slightly minty breath on his eyelids made Sherlock flinch backwards and split his eyes open a crack. John's electric blue iris's looked back at him and the ex army doctor grinned.

"Mm? What?" The detective muttered, blinking bleary-eyed up at his lover. The curtains had never been put back up in his bedroom, so the morning light was almost blinding. John hoisted himself up so he could somewhat shade his younger boyfriend.

"Time to wake up."

"What time is it?"

"About eight." John chuckled, stroking Sherlock's cheek. "We said we'd get up early and finish packing for home."

"Oh right. Home." Sherlock smiled back at John and leaned into his warm hand. "I hope Mrs. Hudson kept our flat from going dusty."

"She's not our housekeeper, love." John gave Sherlock a kiss before rolling out of the bed. He didn't realize he was naked until he caught sight of himself in the mirror. He quickly grabbed some underwear (though Sherlock really didn't seem to mind the view) and headed into the en-suite bathroom.

Sherlock closed his eyes again and snuggled up into the warm spot where John had been lying. _Home… London…_Sherlock smiled to himself and huddled right under the duvet, engulfing himself in its warmth. He lay awake until John emerged ten minutes later, smelling like Blonde Bombshell shampoo and lemon body wash. The detective got up and wandered over to John, wrapping his arms around his still wet, toned waist, and pressing his nose to the base of his neck. He used his tongue to lick away some of the remaining droplets from John's hair that had escaped down the back of his neck.

"Hmm. What's all this about?" John smiled and leaned back, allowing Sherlock to rest his chin on his good shoulder.

"You smell nice, that's all. And you're warm."

"And you're quite cold. Get dressed." John turned around so he could hug Sherlock. Sherlock chuckled and hugged back.

"Okay, _mother_. If you actually let me go." John gave his lover one last squeeze before moving away to look for clothes.

"Did Mycroft give us a date yet on when we can go home?"

"He didn't. He has a "matter of national security" to attend to and he doesn't know when he'll be home. But he'll send James with the car." John had to snort at that. How many people had a brother who basically was the British Government?

* * *

><p>James picked them up at around half past nine the next Tuesday. The car wasn't the usual sleek black car that Mycroft picked them up in, but this time it was a longer, just as sleek black car; more room for their belongings with the same amount of comfort.<p>

"Did you have a nice stay?" James asked, placing the last of the boxes containing John's laptop into the back of the car. "Mycroft says he'd like to invite you both to dinner with himself and Mr. Lestrade."

Sherlock tried not to groan out loud at that, instead smiling and nodding briefly. "I'll get back to him on that."

"On another note," John cut in, "Our stay was lovely, thank you." James smiled at the two of them and opened their doors. Before they sat in, John turned around to face the house and Sherlock joined him.

"What's wrong?" The detective followed John's gaze to the large, Victorian style house of his childhood summers.

"Nothing. Nothing is wrong." John smiled, reaching out to grasp Sherlock's left hand with his right. He'd never say it aloud, but he was going to miss the old house. "Come on, I'm sure Mrs. Hudson can't wait to see us."

Sherlock chuckled and they sat into the car to head home. James gave them some privacy in the back seat, politely using the divider screen and putting on some relaxing music. The journey back to Baker Street was shorter and more light-hearted, seeing as they weren't on the escape from a dangerous psychopath who wanted to ruin their lives. John tried his best to block out all memories of Moriarty. Of course it was impossible and always would be… But John only had Sherlock's safety in mind. He laid his head on Sherlock's shoulder and closed his eyes for the last bit of the journey.

* * *

><p>"Oh, boys!" Mrs. Hudson opened the door of 221B and launched both her arms around John and Sherlock, who caught the old woman in the hug before she could do them all damage. "It's so nice to see you back! Sherlock, dear are you eating?"<p>

"Yes Mrs. Hudson. John is taking great care of me." He pulled out of her grandmotherly hug and slipped an arm around John's waist. The shorter man smiled, while the landlady stepped back to let them in. The familiar smell of the hallway gave Sherlock a warm feel in his stomach and he all but leaped up the seventeen steps.

"Oh, dear me look at him. I was going to offer you some tea." Mrs. Hudson turned to face John and she patted his arm. "Tell you what, go get yourselves settled and I'll put on the kettle."

"No, no it's fine, Mrs. Hudson, really."

"What, do you not like my tea?"

"It's not that." John smiled. "I just think we'll spend our evening starting to unpack. Don't want Sherlock complaining about tea slowing him down." The landlady nodded in acknowledgement.

"Same old Sherlock then."

"Yeah, just about." John gave her another hug before hoisting both he and Sherlock's bags over his shoulders and ascending the stairs after his lover.

"Don't mind me, these bags aren't heavy at all."

"John…" Sherlock ignored his sarcastic complaint (usually he'd tell John that sarcasm is the lowest form of wit) and darted about the room, looking under chairs and in the cupboards. "John, Mrs. Hudson took my skull!"

"She what?"

"Took my _skull!_" John sighed and dropped the bags down.

"No she didn't. I had it sent to Kent, but I never unpacked it."

"Well where is it?" Sherlock gesticulated with his hands and then pointed to the mantelpiece. "I want it here, where it belongs."

John chuckled, moving over to Sherlock and shutting him up with a light peck against the corner of his mouth. "Your skull is safely and securely wrapped in bubble wrap, in one of those cardboard boxes. Why don't you unpack?"

"You're not going to help?"

"We don't have milk. Or much in the way of food. I need to buy some."

"Can it not wait?"

"Wait for milk? I have my tea with milk." John looked innocently up at Sherlock. The detective had those 'I think you're up to something' eyes. If he did know something was up he kept quiet about it.

"Alright. Just don't get kidnapped or anything."

"I'm sure Mycroft has upgraded our surveillance by now. I'll be fine. Look for your skull."

Sherlock sighed and gave John one last kiss before moving to the pile of unpacked boxes. The flat looked somewhat bare (and maybe a little bit tidier) with most of its books and gadgets gone, so John knew the detective would be kept busy for a while. Good; he needed time. He left with a quick 'I love you' and a 'see you later' (Sherlock simply hummed in reply; too busy unpacking books and arranging them by genre.)

* * *

><p>There were so many choices. John's face was pressed so close to the glass case that he was starting to leave little patches of fog, immediately pulling back every time he did so in case the woman who owned the shop noticed.<p>

The silver and gold and diamond bands kept safe behind the glass case were shining out at John. The little details, engravings, gemstones, boxes to go with the rings in all spectrums of colours just made the doctor more determined to find the right one; one that would look nice, one that would fit perfectly, one that said 'I Love You' without having to say anything at all-

"Are you alright, Sir?" The shop owner asked, popping her head out the doorway behind the counter and smiling. She was about thirty with a pointy nose, sharp blue eyes, and creamy skin. Her accent said she came from France and by the looks of it she was at least a few months pregnant. John shook his head at how much like Sherlock he sounded, deducing things mentally. Only to be expected, since they'd been living together for close to two months now.

"Ah, yes please. I'm looking for a ring…" John said uncertainly, casting his eyes down at the glass case again.

"Engagement ring?" The woman pulled out two catalogue style ring-binders, one pink and the other blue. She pushed the pink one forward but when John shook his head, her hand moved questioningly to the blue ring-binder. "Oh, you mean…"

"For a man, yes. I'm looking for a male engagement ring." The woman grinned; obviously it was rare she got customers like John.

"Well, we have some excellent ones right here." She handed John the ring-binder opened it onto the first page, pointing out all the different types. John couldn't help but feel his stomach tighten with nerves.

* * *

><p>John took a deep breath as Angelo ran things through with him again, nodding at each point and mentally ticking things off. The set up looked gorgeous, and would look even more gorgeous on the right night when everything was ready.<p>

"Thank you again, Angelo."

"Not a problem. Just give me a call when you want me to put the finishing touches on everything, eh?" John nodded and smiled shakily. He reached into his pocket and fished around, before producing the ring he bought weeks earlier; a simple silver band with a thin blue line running through its centre.

"This is the one I'm going to use. You know what to do with it." It had been hell hiding the thing from Sherlock; the detective hadn't had a case since they had come home and he'd taken to roaming about the flat 'redecorating'.

"Of course." Angelo winked and handed the ring to Billy to keep it safe. "It's a beautiful ring, Dr. Watson."

"Please, you've known me long enough to call me John."

"That I do. Now don't you worry about a thing and get yourself together. Billy and I will make sure the evening is perfect." Angelo clapped John on the shoulders and led him downstairs into the main part of the restaurant. "It's nice to have you back, John."

"Yeah. It's nice to be here. Right, well I'd best be off. Can't have him wondering why it took me so long to buy some groceries." John chuckled and waved Angelo goodbye as he left.

He actually did make a stop to the shops to stock up on necessities, and a couple little luxuries and treats for Sherlock. The man had been acting quite a bit like a fractious child over the last few days, and John had to come up with a way to placate him. He picked up some milk, bread, fresh fruit and vegetables, laundry detergent, washing up liquid, a month's supply of shampoo and body gels, and a new set of Petri dishes for Sherlock (from Molly). The poor little lab tech still didn't seem to realize that Sherlock was taken.

"I'm home!" John called up the stairs. When he got no reply, he instinctively began to worry. _No, John, stop it,_he mentally scolded himself and allowed himself to breathe a sigh of relief when he finally did reach the flat; Sherlock was sprawled out on the sofa with an open book lying carelessly on his chest, rising and falling with each breath he took. The doctor stood in the doorway and smiled softly. Most of the boxes had been unpacked, mainly books, ornaments, the skull, and Sherlock's experiment set. Their bags sat at the bottom of the stairs leading to the bedrooms, now empty of clothes and other belongings, and the kettle was filled with water for boiling later on. There were a couple of empty boxes sitting on the kitchen table that had yet to be broken down and put away. Tobias and Bitsy were asleep in the same bed on the windowsill, the white kitten now almost as big as the silver-striped tom.

John quietly put the shopping away and set about making a cup of strong tea. Apparently the great, unpredictable Sherlock Holmes _could_ be turned into the domestic sort.

* * *

><p>Sherlock smoothed down his hair and gave himself one last look over. His curls had been straightened, and it was now only slightly wavy, and very smooth. It flicked out a small bit at the ends, where some of the tighter curls were. Before leaving the bathroom, he smoothed down his suit jacket and purple shirt, flicking off a bit of fluff.<p>

"Are you re-"John poked his head in the bathroom door and paused when he saw Sherlock and his straightened hair. He smirked and leaned in the doorframe.

"Do you not like it?"

"No I do. It's… Different. But a good different." John offered out his hand. "You look lovely, by the way."

"Not too bad yourself." Sherlock nodded, looking over John's black and silver three-piece suit. He took his offered hand and linked their fingers together. "Now, why are we going out tonight exactly?"

"Well, we never celebrated our anniversary in Kent, and we have no cases on so… Why not? I thought it might help relieve the tedium." John licked his lips and inhaled slowly, turning and leading the detective through the hallway and down the stairs to the coat-rack. Sherlock slipped on his usual long coat and scarf, and John hailed for a taxi.

In his mind, the doctor went over what he had planned for tonight. He calmed down his growing nerves by focusing on London passing by outside. They made small talk about meeting up with Mycroft soon and about his relationship with Lestrade, all the time there was still a mass of butterflies dashing about in his stomach.

Angelo greeted them at the door, shaking Sherlock's hand vigorously and grinning massively at John. Sherlock seemed a bit put out by the enthusiastic greeting, but when John linked their fingers together and followed Angelo through the restaurant Sherlock couldn't help but trail after him.

Rather than being led to Sherlock's usual table, the little square one for two by the front window, Angelo led them up the stairs to the rooftop terrace. It was something that was rarely used, but for Sherlock and John, anything. The small terrace, lined with greenery and lush flowers, had a square table in the middle of it. The rail around the terrace was littered with colourful paper lanterns, dimly lit up from the inside. Billy, his black waistcoat and white shirt freshly pressed and fairly gleaming, smiled and nodded his head.

"Oh, John..." Sherlock felt rather foolish, since that was all he managed to say. Made him sound like a girl out of one of the terrible romance films that Sherlock sometimes caught John watching on telly late at night.

"Happy anniversary, Sherlock." Angelo wandered back down the stairs as John stretched up to kiss his lover's cheek. Billy faded into the background as John pulled out Sherlock's chair before sitting down, and he only reappeared to set down the single candle for the table or with dishes of food. Angelo had outdone himself; small Italian appetizers mingled pleasantly with Thai treats, and the meal came to a head with a rather large sea bass roasted whole and seasoned to a perfect turn. Eventually that, too, was cleared away, and Sherlock sat back, nursing a glass of white wine.

John sat very still and fiddled with his waistcoat's buttons, wiping at them with his thumb so they were all shiny. Swallowing lightly, John managed to look up at Sherlock; it was an odd sensation to see him with straightened hair. The tips at the very base still had a slight kink to them, which gave away his original tousled curls. He could see Sherlock giving him that 'I'm deducing you' look, which didn't help his nerves. Still, this was something Sherlock most likely wouldn't be able to deduce. Clearing his throat, John broke the silence.

"You eh, like icing on cupcakes don't you?" John wanted to be sure. "Actually, excuse me a moment." He stood up and walked over to the stereo and changed the music to Yiruma - a personal favourite. Moonlight was the first track that played and John took his seat once again, this time looking at Sherlock with a soft light in his blue eyes.

"It depends on the kind of icing. I prefer buttercream to cream cheese, and vanilla over other flavours." _He's very nervous. Can't sit still..._His eyes followed John's movements as he crossed to the stereo, curiosity clear on his sculpted features. John had long ago gotten past his awkwardness around Sherlock, and this sudden fidgety disposition and constant movement was completely unlike him. This, of course, led Sherlock to wet his lips and steeple his fingers in front of his mouth. "Tell me what's on your mind, John... I thought you got over this a long time ago."

"Got over what?" John asked, but Angelo had arrived on the terrace with a covered silver dish. As he got closer to the couple, Angelo gave them a warm smile, before setting the platter down between them.

"Hope you're having a good night, eh?" The Italian man winked at John and Sherlock before adding something about privacy and bustling off again.

"Here, this is for you," John lifted the lid off the dish and revealed two buns - Madeira mixture with vanilla sugar icing. He passed Sherlock one of the buns. "Don't eat it until you've heard me out though... Okay?" John let out a long breath and had to wet his lips. But before he could speak, Sherlock set his bun down and cut in.

"You're practically stuttering, you can't seem to sit still, you're flushed and sweating despite the fact that it's cool outside, and your hands are fidgety but not shaky. You're nervous, and you haven't been nervous around me since the first month you moved into the flat and now I'd like to know why. ... Well, go on then."

John listened as Sherlock listed off all those points. _Am I really sweating?_ He almost brought a hand to his forehead to check, but kept it still on the table. "Right, Sherlock erm..." John sat forward, palms resting on the tabletop. "Before I met you I was a mess with PTSD. Then I met you... The first day we moved in together, you invited me on that case. We came here, actually... If you remember correctly, I left my cane behind me and Angelo had to bring it back!" John let out a small chuckle that bordered on a nervous wheeze. "Sherlock, limps don't just disappear for no good reason - psychosomatic or not. And the adventures have only gone on from there. I mean, it's a wonder I've survived this long, but I've always put my life in your hands in the end. I _trust_ you, Sherlock, but I have to know. Do you trust me?" He reached across the table and took one of Sherlock's long hands into his own.

"Well, if you recall that thing with the cane was intentional. You didn't believe me when I said it was psychosomatic and I took that as a challenge to prove you wrong." He watched John's hand creep across the table to link into his own, one eyebrow arched slightly, but he quickly flicked those bright silver eyes back to John's face. His tongue darted out to wet his lips again, just a peek of glistening pink. "John, if I didn't trust you I wouldn't have gotten myself into this. And you were the one to help me get back to my old self after..." He trailed off, his jaw tightening a bit. "So yes, I trust you fully and whole-heartedly. Now, are you going to spit out what you're trying to say or are you going to continue to make me think you're about to ask me to marry you?"

"Right, yes, the thing I was-" John was cut off then, staring across the table at Sherlock. _God, he's good._ His heart was racing at this point and his mouth opened a few times like a fish. Finally pulling himself somewhat together, John took a breath and moved forward. "...Yes. Sherlock, that is what I was going to say... Though I had planned asking you a bit differently."

John took the bun sitting in front of Sherlock and broke it in half. Inside was the silver ring that he'd had Billy bake into the bun specifically for tonight. Holding it out, John swallowed and closed his eyes. "You said you were married to your work and that's why I was hesitant. I love you, Sherlock and if you don't want to marry me I completely understand so... there's the ring." John placed the half of the bun with the ring still in it on the table and went to stand by the wall of greenery for a breather. What he just said had taken a lot out of him and he was practically hyperventilating.

Even Sherlock seemed completely taken off guard. Rather than letting his mouth gape like a fish, he closed it with an audible click. He had meant it as a joke, really he had, something to lighten up the atmosphere. Now that John had turned out to really be proposing, after just over three months together, the detective was completely at a loss. Mummy and Mycroft would be as pleased as punch to find out that he was getting married. Lestrade and the Yard would be stunned, but they'd get over it and it didn't really matter what they thought in the end anyway. And John... John would be crushed if he said no. His dear doctor, the man that had put up with him through several violent cases, one kidnapping, and a month away from home. The one that had put him back together after what Moriarty had done to him. The one that put up with the lab set on the kitchen table, the body parts in the icebox, and the skull on the mantlepiece. The one that greeted him every morning with a kiss and a fresh cup of Darjeeling tea. _His John_...

Sherlock stared down at the half bun on the table, his heart fluttering like a trapped bird in his chest. Slowly he reached out and pulled the band out of the pastry, brushing bits of crumbs off it with the tips of his fingers. After staring at it for another long moment he slipped it onto his left ring finger, turning it 'round a few times. It fit almost perfectly, though it _was_ a little loose. His chair creaked a little as he stood up, padding up silently behind John and slipping his arms around his waist. "Sorry for figuring it out. I should have let it be a surprise," he murmured against John's ear.

After expecting a rejection and another "John, I'm flattered by your interest but I consider myself married to my work," John was totally stunned when he felt Sherlock hugging him from behind as he usually did. It took a moment for the fact Sherlock had accepted his sort-of proposal to set in and when it did, John spun around in the detective's arms. Sherlock's face was illuminated a faint pink from the lantern on the wall over John's shoulder. "Oh my... Let me do this the proper way, at least." John took Sherlock's hand, admiring how perfect the ring looked gracing it, and stroked his thumb over the detective's elegant fingers. "Sherlock Holmes- I suppose I should get down on one knee," and he did, never taking his eyes off Sherlock's face, "Sherlock Holmes, will you marry me?" As he said that, a large, love-struck grin appeared on his face.

"Don't be daft, John," he said softly, pulling his lover back to his feet and brushing his fingers through John's hair lightly. "After all that was the question entirely necessary? I'm already wearing the ring." With that, he seized John by the ears and pulled him down to kiss him soundly, licking into his mouth and pressing flush against him. John would have protested with something about tradition and making it special. Not only was he cut off by Sherlock's mouth, he also realized that it _was _special - to him anyway. He kissed Sherlock back with the same amount of passion, backing them up until they reached a wall. After a few more breathless kisses, John stopped and pulled his head back.

"Thank you." Smiling, his hands found their way to the back of Sherlock's neck, holding him so that his thumbs could trace his jaw. "I love you, so much."

Sherlock's hands settled on John's hips and held lightly onto his shirt as the shorter male pulled back. The detective heaved a long, soft sigh and smiled softly down at his lover. "I love you too, John. Now, can we go home? It's threatening to rain and I wouldn't like to be out here when the weather breaks."

"Of course." John poked his boyfriends, no, f_iancé's_ chest playfully. It felt so odd to think that he was engaged and the word felt so foreign in his brain. Smiling, John took Sherlock's hands and began to walk down into the main restaurant. As he did so, Angelo and Billy applauded them with grins and shouts of 'wahey'. The rest of the regular diners joined in on the applause.

Sherlock ducked his head a little and actually coloured a bit, but he did present the ring for inspection when asked. Everyone seemed very impressed, and any presentations of the ring were greeted with murmurs of 'tasteful' and 'suits you, Sherlock'. They thankfully made it out of the restaurant in one piece, without being too much waylaid by Angelo's employees and other regulars of the restaurant. Once they had reached the cool air of the street outside, Sherlock tipped his head back and exhaled quietly.

"I suppose I must thank Angelo properly for doing that." John's hand tightened around Sherlock's then and he stopped to look at him. "I wonder what people will say." Shrugging, he gave Sherlock's hand another quick squeeze and tugged him on. Sherlock was right - it _had_ been threatening to rain. No sooner than the thought entered John's brain did a single wet drop fall from the sky.

Sherlock glanced up as the first drops pattered on the pavement, then glanced back down at John. Before the rain really started to fall in earnest Sherlock swept his coat up and and around like a cape, draping part of it over John and pulling the collar up over the back of his own neck. It wasn't a long walk to get back to the flat, and thanks to the detective's oversized coat they made it into the foyer of 221 without getting too wet.

"Thanks. I knew I should have brought a jacket." John said, though it would be a lie to say he didn't prefer Sherlock's solution. John shook some droplets from his hair, wiping the moisture away on his trousers. "How about we take a shower? We can warm up and settle down then." Still buzzing from what just happened, John wrapped an arm around Sherlock's waist and brought him up to their living room where a fire was blazing in the old wooden fireplace, complementary of Mrs. Hudson.

The rain had made Sherlock's temporarily straightened hair fluff back up into its usual unruly curls, and he ran his fingers through them with a soft sigh. "Not a bad idea, that. As long as you promise to forgo the shower gel you used yesterday, it's quite strong." He wrinkled his nose a bit, almost playfully, and pressed a kiss into the soft skin just under John's ear. Only then did he break away to pull off his dampened coat and hang it off the peg behind the door to dry.

John chuckled and raised his head in vanity. "I think I smell rather delicious thank you very much." Sniffing playfully, he turned and warmed his hands by the fire, removing his waistcoat as he did so. He unbuttoned most of the his shirt until he reached his bellybutton and stood warming up by the fire. Not realizing he was doing it, John released a sort of drawn out, comfortable groan.

Sherlock turned around from hanging up his coat only to find John silhouetted against the firelight. Giving him a covetous once-over, the detective toed his shoes off at the door and crossed the carpet silently, sliding one hand onto John's hip and the other into the open front of his shirt. Nuzzling lightly against his neck, he let out a slow sigh. "Do we really have to have a shower? I'm quite content with warming up here by the fire, and I'm sure I can still work out a way to get you naked."

"Mm, so am I. I think we can go without." John pulled Sherlock close and his hands found their way to Sherlock's shirt, tugging it out of his trousers and settling on the smooth skin beneath. "You always find a way, Sherlock." John smirked and started to kiss his lover's long, pale neck. John noticed the rug beneath them and snickered a little at the thought of fireside sex. It was an approving snicker, of course.

He tipped his head back a bit to oblige John's attention on his neck, one hand still slipped into the open front of his lover's shirt. That hand slowly worked around to his back, his nails raking bluntly over the small of his back. Taking about a half-step back, he ran a hand up John's chest, over his neck, and lifted his chin with a finger. "You know what I'm thinking of, I trust..."

John's eyes closed just while Sherlock's fingers traced his body. When his chin was tilted, his eyes re-opened and he smirked down at his lover's face. Taking Sherlock's shoulders, John pushed the younger man down on the rug below, pinning him in place and straddling his thighs. "This answers your question, I trust..." He leaned down and started to suck gently on Sherlock's jawline while his hand moved to work on his shirt buttons.

"That answers my question very well. But John..." He arched softly off the rug, fumbling a bit with the last couple buttons on John's shirt. His hands slipped under the fabric and pushed it off, his long fingers running over the pale scar on his lover's shoulder. "I have a silly little request of you, and since it's technically our anniversary I hope you might indulge it." Sherlock's eyes closed and he arched his neck back a little more, making himself completely vulnerable.

John stroked Sherlock's face as he sat back, just a little. Tilting his head, his tongue darted out to wet his lips, "Oh? What's is it?" He took off the rest of Sherlock's shirt, tugging it off and discarding it. His pale skin was illuminated by the orange flickering of the fire. John couldn't help but trace the pale, marble-like chest all the way from hip to collarbone.

The lanky detective arched gracefully into that tracing finger, his back just slightly leaving the carpet. "Every time we do this, it's in almost the same position. I'd like to try something... Different this time, if I might." Once John's finger had stopped at his collarbone, he pushed up slightly on his elbows. "I heard, or read, or something, that it feels different when the bottom is facedown or on all fours." He coloured slightly; even now that they were engaged, he was still slightly uncomfortable talking about this sort of thing.

John paused for a split second and then broke into a smile - a mixture of amusement and intrigue. "Yeah, so I've heard." John had been wanting to bring that up for some time but every time they got hot it just... started and ended that way. The doctor made a mental note to try out quite a few positions seeing as they had stepped up their relationship. "Right, I'll start us off." John said softly. After removing both their clothes, John brought Sherlock up to his knees and whispered into his ear, "On your knees then, love."

Sherlock was honestly surprised at how quickly John stripped them both; he barely had time to help before they were both down to their skins. Shifting a bit, he turned over and leaned forward, his fingers curling into the plush fibres of the rug under him. He suspected that he'd have a nice little bit of rugburn on each of his knees by the time this was over, but it was a sacrifice he was willing to make for something like this. He nervously wet his lips, suddenly recalling that they didn't keep anything downstairs for moments like this. At least, there wouldn't be anything there since they'd been away for over a month.

John was about to prepare himself when he realised what they needed was probably stuffed away in one of the boxes [ if there was any left. ] "Um, Sherlock I don't have anything to make this easier..." John bit his lip, shifting forward on his knees until he was pressed against his lover. Putting his hands around the thin stomach, John leaned forward and kissed Sherlock's shoulder. "Will you be alright, love?"

Sherlock made a small noise and tipped his head up. "Normally I'd say I'd be fine, but since this is a night for new things... There is always the thought of just... J-justusingyourtongue." He swallowed nervously and turned his head to the side, not quite meeting John's eye. "I completely understand if you'd rather not, but the option's there." The detective bowed his head again, his curls flopping forward over his face.

John's breathing changed to just a little quicker. He was blushing, but so was Sherlock. The way Sherlock said that so quickly and sheepishly was rather... cute. Finally breaking into a smile, John's hands rubbed up the length of Sherlock's stomach, catching his chin and tilting it so he could catch his lips. "I'm willing to try anything with you." Pulling back, John caught Sherlock's hips and caressed them slowly.

The detective kissed back quickly before bowing his head again, his eyes drifting shut. Even just these little touches already had him past half-hard, and he shifted lightly into John's hands. Heaving a long sigh he let his fingers tighten on the soft rug under his hands and tried to steady his breathing. That was much harder than he expected; John seemed much too good at stealing his breath away and refusing to give it back.

John took a long breath, studying Sherlock's behind before finally spreading his cheeks apart. Blinking a few times, John continued to caress a few seconds longer. Bringing his face closer, he used his tongue instead of his hands on Sherlock's cheeks, kissing his way until he reached the opening. He tested the puckering hole with a quick flick of his tongue. John liked it, finding himself wanting to please Sherlock more. He moved his tongue in slow circles then in the area just around the entrance.

Sherlock sucked in a quick breath and arched his back, his hands clenching tighter on the carpet until his knuckles started to turn white with the grip he held. It was a completely foreign sensation for him, but not an unpleasant one, and not entirely unlike when John's fingers were slicked with lube and pressing against him with his usual quiet-self possession. After a moment he moaned quietly and almost hesitantly, hips very gently pressing back against his lover's mouth.

John continued to rim Sherlock, making little kisses every few licks. His tongue pressed up against Sherlock for a lingering moment, finally moving again and darting in. The doctor actually found it arousing and he began to make soft little noises against Sherlock, the sound vibrating through him. John was good at multi-tasking [ well, as good as any man could get ] and his hands slid down to Sherlock's length, curling around it.

Sherlock muttered something that was probably a curse as his elbows gave out, pitching him facefirst into the carpet. The sudden slump forward was, of course, shortly followed by another low, rumbling moan as he bucked forward again. That was partly for the clever hand curled around his length, of course, but more for the wicked tongue slowly working him into a quivering mess on the rug. He was silently praising himself for thinking of this and was really quite smug about doing so.

John had to keep up with Sherlock's movement. The mere fact he was able to make Sherlock like _this_ using his tongue was fascinating, to say the least. He continued to dart in and out of Sherlock with his tongue, working his way as deep as he could go. By now John was fully aroused and having his detective under him _just _as aroused was just contributing. After a few more glorious moments of tasting Sherlock in this completely new way, John pulled back, his lips now moist. "Are you ready?" He asked softly, giving Sherlock's length a swift upwards stroke.

"Oh good god yes," he said after a long moment of panting for breath. That swift, long stroke made him moan and cry out softly, pushing back up on his elbows to change the arch of his back somewhat. Not that it helped, really; he'd pushed his hips sp far up that his chest was almost touching the floor and his knees were almost off it. "P-please, John... Oh, god in heaven..."

John's breathing got somewhat heavier from the moan-filled pleads beneath him. Gulping, his hands took hold of Sherlock's hips once more, positioning himself and pushing forward. It was easy, slick and a wanton noise rumbled deep from the doctor's throat. He pulled out and thrust back in again, taking his time until he developed a rhythm. Sherlock was nearly balancing on his arms and chest at this point.

"H-hahn!" Sherlock made an utterly shameless sound at that first slick push, his eyes flying wide and his back arching. The sound shocked even him, and he'd been the one that made the bloody thing... Ignoring the feeling of rugburn forming on his forearms and his knees, he pushed back against John's thrusts with a continuous stream of desperate little moans and cries. Well, little in the sense that they were short. They were probably quite loud enough to carry through the floor and downstairs.

Pulling Sherlock's behind impossibly closer, John made his thrusts longer; pushing right in until he couldn't go anymore and just rolling his hips a few times before pulling out again and repeating the process. "Ngh, Sherlock...!" John gasped, letting his head fall forward until they were both ready. Soon, John was panting and gasping with the occasional drawn out and quite loud groan.

The detective have a needy sort of cry, falling forward again until his forehead practically rested against the carpet. Every slow grind and roll pushed him further and further toward that edge, leaving him teetering on the brink of his orgasm. Something stopped him, though, something that left him clenched and shuddering with the desperation of it all. His hips pressed back harder against his lover, rolling slightly and blindly seeking something to send him over.

John decided to do something new - yet again - which would give him better access to Sherlock's length /and/ support him at the same time. Placing one arm gently around Sherlock's stomach and the other on his hip, John lifted Sherlock and rolled himself onto his back. He was now as deep as he could be in Sherlock. The hand around his lover's stomach moved to curl around his member. Knowing this usually did the trick to send Sherlock finally there, he pumped his hand up and down while whispering for Sherlock to "move around."

He let out a keening moan and bucked sharply, his head tossing back against John's shoulder. Sherlock's hips rolled only a few times, thrusting between the hand around him and the warm flesh inside him before he was shuddering and crying out, one hand clutching at John's thigh. His fingernails left little red crescents in the taut skin there as he spilled himself, warm and wet and sticky, over his lover's sturdy fingers.

John couldn't hold back any longer and hearing Sherlock moan like that, feel him move like that and the feel of him coming into his hand sent John finally over the edge. He let out a loud, shuddered moan, releasing himself inside Sherlock and holding onto him for support. "Aangh! Ah..." Finally he stopped and just panted, resting his chin on Sherlock's shoulder. He stayed like that for a moment so they could both catch their breaths before pulling himself out of his lover with a sharp intake. "Oh, god..."

Sherlock didn't move for a few long moments; he just stayed quite still, revelling in the slow warmth seeping through his body and his limbs. When John pulled out that roused him a bit, making him give out a low groan and roll his head to one side. The rest of him followed and he flopped facedown onto the rug, limbs limply splayed out and his cheek pressed into the softness of the rug's fibres. "You have to try that sometime," he whispered hoarsely, face still pressed into the rug.

John snorted and erupted into sudden laughter - obviously giddy from having sex. The fire blazed beside them, casting heat and a warm glow onto their naked bodies. "Well, we'll just have to find someone willing to try it won't we?" Still chuckling, John lay down beside Sherlock and gently lifted his head up. "Happy anniversary." He smiled and gave Sherlock a slow, soft, lingering kiss, before resting his cheek on the vintage rug. He began to stroke Sherlock's curls, eyes slowly closing as he did so.

"Happy aniversary," he muttered sleepily, already most of the way into dreamland. In what seemed like seconds he was the rest of the way asleep, his breathing deep and even and a few curls that had tumbled into his face moving with his breaths. He was going to wake up with the print of the rug smashed into his cheek and chest, and with the rest of him sticky and a true mess, but that night had been so bloody wonderful... Even in his sleep Sherlock smiled.

John shook his head at Sherlock with a smile. Sighing, he got up, put the safety screen in front of the fire and picked up their clothes only to dump them in a bigger pile on the sofa. Stooping down, John lifted Sherlock up bridal style and went into _his _bedroom for once; seeing as he was tired and there was stairs to get to his own room. In all honesty, it was the first time John had been in Sherlock's bedroom since they got together. It was foreign, it wasn't "their" room like upstairs was, but it had a bed. Easing Sherlock under the covers, John slipped in beside him and snuggled up.

Sherlock's room was shockingly tidy compared to the rest of the flat; his books were arranged neatly on the shelves, his clothes were neatly hung up in the closet, and the desk and bed were set and perfect right angles to the walls.

Sherlock half-woke when he was lifted and moved, enough to turn his head and nuzzle a kiss against John's scarred shoulder, but other than that he showed no signs of coming 'round. In fact, he didn't even cuddle back up to John. He just sprawled out, made a sleepy mutter, and sank back into deep slumber. He did eventually migrate toward the other male's body heat, but he didn't wake up to do it.

* * *

><p><strong>Sherlock Post-Note: Okay. Sex is verbatim (sans a few typos I managed to catch amidst the smut) from the RP which will be resuming in September with further developments. Suffice to say I got lazy and I got tired and I always thought we did really good with that scene.<strong>

**Unless Watson and I get**_**really**_**creative between now and the beginning of the month there might only be a couple more chapters until we churn out enough content for more. Thanks for being such a faithful audience.**

**ALSO. We have toned down the amount of sex that these two have for the sake of the plot. Really. I don't know that that matters but I just felt like including it.**

**^Author's note: Like Sherlock, I would like to thank every one of you for reviewing, story-alerting, favourite story-ing, and just being great, wonderful readers and Sherlock fans. **


	24. The Perfect Storm

**Apologies for the delay! School started back and I've been busy and tired and as well as my roleplay with Sherlock, I've had little time for actual writing. But I'm in bed with a cold at the moment so I thought I'd finally touch up the chapter and post it. Thanks to Sherlock for helping with this.**

**A lot going on in this chapter; new case, domestic bliss, an introduction of Harry, and more. Let me know if you don't understand anything in it.**

**Thanks!**

**Disclaimer: I only own the plot.**

* * *

><p>John was slowly becoming a better cook. He would joke to himself in the mornings before Sherlock got up from bed that he was like a little house-husband (except, you know, he wasn't a husband <em>yet<em>). He took some pre-made, overnight chilled pancake mixture from the fridge and heated up a little frying pan. Using a ladle, John carefully dropped a dollop of the pancake mix into the sizzling pan and squeezed some lemon juice over it. He was so intent on getting that first pancake absolutely perfect, that he didn't even register the presence of his fiancée until two arms slid around his waist from behind. The doctor gave a little start, but relaxed into those warm, familiar arms.

"Goodmorning, my love." John smiled and turned down the heat of the pan. "I'm making your favourite."

"Mm…" Sherlock kissed John's temple once and stepped aside to give him more room. "You remember how I like them?"

"With a smile and a kiss?" John grinned and flipped the pancake – almost missing the pan, actually. "I'm kidding. A sprinkle of sugar and a dollop of whipped cream." John felt almost proud of himself; he had learned off most of the detective's favourite foods (that he would actually _eat_most of the time, save for the times he would secretly scrape all the food to the edge of the plate – but that was becoming less of a regular occurrence and usually happened when he was sulking.)

They ate in silence, just watching each other and smiling. John's eyes kept flicking to the silver engagement ring on Sherlock's ring finger and his features would soften. Since John proposed, things had been very up and down on the emotional scale; they'd go through phases of utter bliss, looking up suits and shoes and wedding rings. But then they'd have the hectic days; Sherlock would pace around and mutter "I'm getting married… _Married_…" while looking somewhat stunned and John would have little bouts of panic when it came to the thoughts of telling the people they knew.

Of course, they needn't have worried about that. Mycroft was delighted when they told both him and Greg at dinner in Mycroft's house in Kensington. He had congratulated them both and assured them he'd find the perfect venue to get married. Even though Sherlock and Mycroft's relationship was stronger, there were still obvious unresolved childhood feuds that stayed around (especially when it came to their Mother, Sibyl Holmes, and how she should be informed) and although they didn't 'hate' each other anymore, Sherlock was adamant that he and John would take care of most of the wedding.

Lestrade was happy for them and just a tad jealous; Sibyl Holmes wasn't even aware of Mycroft's relationship with him. Mycroft just caught his hand, promising that he would tell her 'soon' and that it was just a bit early.

Finishing their pancakes and coffee, John reached out to take hold of Sherlock's hand, rubbing his thumb over Sherlock's fingers. The detective smiled and leaned over to table to kiss John.

"I love you, John." John answered that with another kiss. He murmured his response over the detective's lips and stood up, skirting the table so he could sit in Sherlock's lap and lock his arms around his neck. It was mornings like these that made John's heart warm.

Then his phone rang.

Rolling his eyes as he expected it to be Sarah at the clinic asking him to work today (he had gone back to work a week after they got engaged.) Instead, the name on the phone made him blink in surprise.

"Hello?" He answered the phone and slid off Sherlock's lap, ignoring the detective's pout. "Harry… How are things?" His eyes flicked to Sherlock's, mirroring his questioning ones as he shrugged. "That's wonderful, Harry, really." John leaned against the countertop and smiled. His smile faded and he swallowed. "T-today? Um…" Sherlock cocked his head to the side. "Right, yeah, okay. See you this afternoon, then. And Harry? I'm proud of you." John hung up the phone and let a breath escape him.

"Your sister?"

"Yeah. She and Clara got back together a few months ago." John collected their plates and added them to the already full sink. "She just wants to come around and see me. She's been sober for quite a while."

"Well that's good, isn't it?"

"Very. You don't mind meeting her do you?" Sherlock shook his head and stood up, stretching.

"Not at all. I've always been interested in meeting Harriet Watson." Sherlock smiled and made his way to the stairs. "But I've got to go see Lestrade first. I'll be home by one, though."

"Oh, a case?" Sherlock hadn't been taking many cases since they came home, but it was obvious to anyone with eyes that he was starting to get bored. John would find him late at night reading news reports and muttering to himself. So maybe this was a very good thing.

"Must be. Don't let Harry leave without me seeing her." With that, Sherlock sprinted up the stairs to get dressed.

* * *

><p>Sherlock breezed into Scotland Yard with an ease of familiarity, sauntering right past Donavan (who made no snide comments, just <em>looked<em>at him like an unwanted disease) and down to Lestrade's office. The blinds were closed so nobody could see inside, and when Sherlock burst in out of the blue, Lestrade jumped.

"A bit of a warning next time?" He snapped, sitting up straight and fixing his collar. Sherlock rolled his eyes and sat down.

"Why? Is my brother hiding under your desk?" Sherlock smirked. "I'm joking. I knew he was gone."

"How did you even-"

"Not important. What's the case?"

"Yes, hello to you too, Sherlock." Lestrade brushed down his suit jacket and rolled his neck, pushing a file towards Sherlock. The detective's eyes lit up and he accepted it as eagerly as a child on Christmas morning.

He flicked through the file, skipping the 'unimportant' details and getting to the point. "Three women all in their late twenties found dead. Any connections?"

"All found in the same location, exactly a week apart in their murders and it doesn't look like suicide."

"Anything left on the bodies? A mark or a note?"

"Uh…"

"Can I _see_the bodies?"Sherlock sighed and flicked back to the first page, muttering the locations of each.

"In the morgue still." Lestrade leaned back in his chair. "Is there anything that strikes you?"

Sherlock looked at the pictures handed in by the families; three smiling women. "Not much in the way of their hair. The same ginger colour, except the first one looks unnatural, dyed."

Lestrade hesitated a moment before he spoke again. "…Sherlock?"

"Mm?" Sherlock looked up and met a pair of concerned eyes. He sighed. "I'm _fine_now. And, as John will tell you, bored out of my skull. It's been five months, Lestrade." He held up his left hand, gesturing with his head to the ring. "Do you think this would be happening if I was in such a bad way?"

"No… But what about the nightmares?"

"Nightmares?"

"John said you have nightmares sometimes." Sherlock rolled his eyes again and relaxed into his chair.

"That's not going to affect the case, is it? Look, I can do this."

Lestrade nodded, taking back the folder and handing Sherlock a copy to take with him. "The bodies are in Bart's. Call me if you find anything else."

"Will do. Oh, and tell Mycroft to wear a bit less aftershave next time. It's practically clinging to the blinds." Sherlock winked and left, closing the door on a very red Lestrade.

* * *

><p><em>Bruising on neck – strangulation. Pronounced ligature marks on the wrists – struggled, tied up with rope or some other kind of cord. Fairly thick, judging on the width of the marks.<em>Sherlock peered at photos of the first murdered woman, narrowing his eyes. He stood up straight and gently tugged down the sheet on the gurney closest to him.

_Bullet entered directly over heart – would have died right away.__  
><em>  
>"Molly?" He called. The general pathologist came scurrying over and looked up at the detective. "Gunshot wound, where are the bullets?"<p>

"O-oh, um…" She hurried over an evidence locker and pulled out three separate plastic bags, containing a bullet each. "Let's see, number two-eighty… This is the first woman's – Kate Holding."

"Is there a difference in any of the bullets?"

"The second woman, Madeleine Williams, has a bigger entrance wound." She handed the bag to Sherlock and he pulled it out carefully with his latex-gloved hands. He peered again at the bullet wound and held the slug up to the light, frowning.

"Revolver, .325 Magnum bullet… Quick death." He dropped the bullet back into its little bag and held it out to Molly. "Is there anything else on the body that indicates murder?"

"Rape too, actually." Molly sighed and continued. "On their clothes-"

"What type of clothes?"

"Um… Formal wear, dresses, there were tears and rips, and some buttons were gone from the third woman's dress. There were semen and blood stains on the underwear."

Sherlock nodded. "Anything else?"

"Bruising on the inner thigh."

"Can I see the feet?" Molly had long gotten over Sherlock's strange requests and led him to the far end of the gurney. Sherlock turned that end of the sheet back as well.

_Toes blistered and calves short and muscular. Toes turned upwards slightly – regular high heel wearer.__  
><em>  
>"Were all three of them wearing high heels?"<p>

"Yeah. They were all quite classy dressers." Sherlock paid no attention to Molly's fashion ramblings and wound his scarf around his neck.

"Thank you Molly. Keep them fresh for me. Now, I must get going." The woman blushed and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, nodding. There were things she wanted to ask him, but she kept her mouth shut.

* * *

><p>John was making two cups of tea in the kitchen, his mind reeling with things he could talk about with his older sister (who was currently in the sitting room) to make things less awkward. Harry had arrived looking fresh faced and a damn sight better than John remembered her. Her mousy brown hair had been cut shoulder length and it was tucked behind her ears on either side, and her eyes (almost the same shade of blue as John's) were bright and alert.<p>

The siblings had exchanged a hug and a brief kiss when Harry knocked on the door, and John had made a comment on how good she was looking. She waved it off and toed off her shoes, leaving them on the mat by the door.

"Do you want a cup of tea, Harry?" John led her into the sitting room, which was littered with Sherlock's books and bits of paper. One of John's jumpers was thrown over the back of Sherlock's armchair, and he scooped it up so Harry could sit down.

"Yeah, that'd be nice." She dusted a bit of cat hair off the chair before sitting down, crossing one leg over the other.

John nodded and got the kettle boiling. "I meant it, Harry, you're looking _much_better."

Harry smiled a bit, looking down at her socked foot. "Clara's been doing wonders for me. Keeping me fed and all, like you'd expect from her."

"She always was a sweet girl..." John trailed off, clearing his throat. No matter how much better Harry was, this was still awkward.

"John," she started, just as John tried to start up again with a quiet "Harry..."

"No, no, go ahead, you first." She smiled up at him, and for a brief moment John was strongly reminded of their mother.

"Ah, right. Um." He sat down in his usual chair, the one with the Union Jack cushion. _How to tell her?_He was saved further deliberation by the appearance of Bitsy, now full grown and slowly getting quite fat. The white cat yawned expansively and leaped into Harry's lap without a care for her black pants. Further intervention came from the kettle, which chose that moment to emit its piercing whistle and summon John back into the kitchen. As he poured the boiling water into two mismatched teacups, he slid his phone out of his pocket and quickly texted Sherlock.

_Are you coming back yet? Harry's here and I can't keep up a conversation. Besides, she really wants to meet you and we have to tell her about us sometime. - JW__  
><em>  
>He received a reply almost immediately, his phone vibrating against the counter and nearly sliding right off the edge.<p>

_I'm in a cab just outside the Tesco's down the road. Should be home in five. Do try not to frighten her off. - SH__  
><em>  
>John laughed quietly and carried both cups of tea into the living room. Harry nodded her thanks and took the cup out of John's hands. "Ah. As I was saying... I mean, it's not going to come as a surprise to you, but... Ah, how do I say this..." John stared down into his tea, feeling a bit out of sorts. "Sherlock and I... We're engaged. I'd show you the ring but it's on Sherlock's hand and since he's not here yet I can't very well do that and I didn't go and get two rings..." Harry started giggling into her tea and John flushed. "I'm babbling, aren't I?"<p>

"Mhmm. John, that's really lovely. I know Mum and Dad would be thrilled to hear you finally found someone." Her smile turned a bit sad and she took a sip of tea. "Since we're talking about news and all, I've got a bit of my own."

"Oh?"

Harry nodded, looking down at her toes. "Clara's pr-"

"John!" Sherlock burst into the room in a flurry, his coat flaring behind him and the light of discovery in his eyes. He stopped in the door and blinked twice, finally noticing that Harry was in his armchair. Suddenly much more subdued, he pulled off his gloves, tucked them into the pocket of his coat, and hung the garment on its peg behind the door. "Oh, hello. You must be Harry." He padded over, holding out a hand.

Harry stood to shake it, apparently unfazed by the way he'd burst into the apartment or by his height. John excused himself to make another cup of tea and Sherlock perched on the arm of John's chair.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt you." Sherlock folded his hands on his knee, left uppermost so the silver band on his third finger was clearly visible. "I have a feeling you were about to tell John something important?"

"Er... Yes, I was, actually." Harry looked quickly toward the kitchen to see if her brother was coming out yet. "Congratulations by the way," she added, with a nod toward the ring on Sherlock's hand.

"Thank you... And thank you, John." He took the cup of tea from his fiancé with a soft little smile. John coloured and sat down in his chair again, his own tea mostly forgotten.

"Sorry, what were you saying, Harry?"

"Ah..." She looked down at her toes again. "Clara's pregnant."

John gave a little start and if he'd been holding his tea he surely would have dropped it. "Clara's... But you're a girl!"

Sherlock muffled a chuckle in his teacup and tried hard not to look at his lover.

"Er... Yes. Thank you for noticing." Harry frowned lightly at John, but continued anyway. "We went and got a donor. She's a few months along, wanted to be sure it was going to take the way it should before we told anyone."

John still looked a bit stunned, and looked up at Sherlock as though he expected the same expression on the detective's face. Instead, Sherlock just smirked lightly down at him. "You knew?"

"Well, I walked in and cut your sister off. It was either going to be 'Clara's pregnant', 'Clara's pressed for cash,' or 'Clara's Presbyterian aunt is coming to town and needs a place to stay'. Given how happy Harry looks about it all I ruled out the last two."

Harry stared blankly at Sherlock for a moment before letting out a hearty laugh. "Oh, John, you've got yourself quite a catch." She finished off her tea, glancing down at her watch as she set the teacup on the little end table. "I should really be going. Clara's got an ultrasound this afternoon to find out the sex of the baby... I'll keep you updated, alright?" She picked herself up out of the chair and John followed, reaching out to hug her. "Take care, baby brother. And you!" Releasing John, she stepped around him and jabbed Sherlock playfully in the chest. "You take care of him, you hear? I expect him to be in one piece when I come back next time!"

"Yes ma'am." Sherlock managed to look sheepish, though it was ruined by the smile crawling across his face. John and Harry hugged again before she actually turned and left, waving a final goodbye over her shoulder.

* * *

><p>"So, the DNA matches this James Mayfair?" Sherlock turned the corner onto another row of terraced red-brick Georgian houses rather quickly, and Lestrade almost tripped himself trying to keep up.<p>

"Yeah, twenty-nine, works in the warehouse that the three victims were found in." Lestrade squinted at the brass numbers screwed onto each front door. "Here, number 90."

The two made their way up the steps and knocked on the door. Sherlock could tell by the hanging baskets filled with red pansies that this James Mayfair definitely had a girl. The 'home sweet home' sign hanging on the door was another indication. Decorating doors; women do that.

His theory was proven when the door was opened.

"Yes?" The woman at the door peered up at Lestrade and Sherlock, eyes narrowing. "Who are you?"

Lestrade held up his badge. "Police… Mind if we come in?" The woman looked Sherlock over again before sighing and widening the door to allow entrance. She was pretty, with bright blonde curls swept up in a ponytail. She must not have been long out of bed, going by the slightly shadowed brown eyes and the fact she was in nothing more than an oversized shirt and some underwear.

"Why are you here?"

"We're looking for James Mayfair." Lestrade said. "Do you know him?"

"I'm his wife, actually. Why? What's he done this time?" She scowled and shut the door. "Broken into another shop?"

"Murder." Sherlock said this with such a casual voice, that one would think he was commenting on the weather. The woman's eyes widened and she leaned against the patterned wall for support. Her right hand clutched at the hem of her oversized shirt and it stayed like that until after she spoke.

"Mur… _What? James?_" She shook her head. "No. James wouldn't _do_ that… James is a good man." Sherlock had to stop himself from rolling his eyes; they were always 'good men'.

Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose. "Look, can you tell us where he is? We found his DNA on the bodies of three women. And give us your name while you're at it." The DI took out a notepad and pen (he was going to write it down this time) and waited for her to speak.

"Um-"

"Stella Mayfair?"

"How did you know?" She looked genuinely shocked, and Sherlock pointed to the wall, where a culinary certificate was hanging up with her name on it. Sherlock noticed her hand clutch her shirt again and narrowed his eyes. "Oh. Yeah. Stella Mayfair. James is… Working. Since six this morning."

Sherlock was peering down at her hands, legs, feet, deducing whatever he could about the woman. When she caught his eye he simply smiled. Of course, Stella blushed – everyone blushed when Sherlock smiled at them.

"Alright, Mrs. Mayfair." Lestrade clicked the pen and put it in his pocket. "We'll be bringing him in for questioning. Is there anything at all you feel might be important?" The DI saw the sorrowful look on her face. "Look, even if he is innocent, we have proof he's been around these women."

She gave a brief nod and took in a shaky breath, her hand relaxing and flexing and partially hidden by the shirt. "There is one thing… I think his best friend, Hugh Bones, I think he's who you'd much rather be looking for."

"And why is that?" Sherlock asked, narrowing his eyes.

"Because," Stella started, looking fazed. "Hugh is no saint. He's such a bad influence on James."

"Think that's why James started drinking?" Stella's eyes practically bugged out of their sockets.

"Wha- Who _are_ you?" Lestrade looked between the two, knowing exactly what was coming next.

"Sherlock Holmes. And yes, you should be impressed." Sherlock smirked. "You're wondering how I know."

"…Yes…"

"I saw. Behind you, under the telephone stand." He pointed with one leather-gloved finger, both Lestrade and Stella turning to look. Under the telephone stand was a plastic bag full of empty beer cans "You don't look like a beer lady Mrs. Mayfair."

"But those could be from a party, how do you know it's a drinking problem?" Lestrade folded his arms, questioning Sherlock.

"Please, look around you! Scuff marks on the keyhole of the door – every night he comes home and his hand is shaking so much that he misses they keyhole." Sherlock whirled around, pointing to the bottom step of the staircase. "There's a dent here, where he trips at the first attempt to climb the steps. The carpet here has stains of months old cider, too hard to wash out and starting to smell…. Your wall there has a crack running down it. If James wasn't spending so much on drink you would probably have it cleared up. It's about three months old going by the mould. And to be quite honest, there's a feint smell of whiskey from your shirt. Do you want me to continue?"

Stella frowned and crossed her arms over her shirt. She cast her gaze down, and licked her lips before speaking. "No, you're quite right. But he's not an alcoholic. He just… over does it sometimes… But Hugh brings him out most nights a week. Look, is my husband really a murderer?"

"Looks like it." Lestrade sighed. "I know this is hard-"

"No you don't!" Stella snapped and immediately shook her head. "I'm sorry. What should I do?"

"Well, we're going to bring James in for questioning, and Hugh too, if we find him." Lestrade's eyes softened at the woman and he placed a hand on her shoulder. "Would you feel safer with someone watching over you?"

She shook her head. "No, no… I'll just keep indoors. You can find Hugh in the warehouse too. He works with James." Stella opened the door. "Thanks detective, Mr. Holmes." Sherlock nodded and left without another word, his coat flapping out behind him and his fingers tapping the keys of his phone. Lestrade followed behind after thanking Stella, and caught up quickly with Sherlock's long strides.

"I ran a search." Sherlock said, pocketing his phone. "Hugh Bones, he's not a drinker anymore. He joined an AA group two years ago and has been off the drink ever since. And his record is clean; not even petty crimes or drugs."

"So…?"

"So, either Stella has forgotten and still thinks he drinks, or Stella is lying. I think the latter."

Lestrade shook his head; she just seemed too innocent looking, too vulnerable to lie. But then again, it _was_ her husband being charged with murder and of course she's going to try and defend him. They walked on in silence to the warehouse, intending to bring both Hugh and James in.

* * *

><p>Sherlock sat on the opposite the interrogation room at Scotland Yard, drumming his fingers on the metal table he was sitting on. He stared at the blonde haired man beyond the two way mirror, Hugh Bones, who was sitting on a cold plastic chair across from DI Dimmock and another policeman, Sergeant Dave Hunt. The room was mostly empty, save for the small metal table and three people, with a camera pointed at Hugh. Sherlock and Lestrade were kept safely out of view.<p>

"Alright, Mr. Bones," Dimmock started, sitting up straight and locking his hands together on the tabletop. "We need you to be completely honest with us. It will save us time, and save you a lot of trouble. Alright?" He spoke slowly and clearly, and Hugh glanced up at him with his bright green eyes.

"Well?" Hunt's voice was deeper, more nasally than Dimmock's, and came across as a sort of sneer. Dimmock gave him a sideward look and Hunt cleared his throat.

Hugh swallowed and nodded; it was obvious he was frightened. He was dressed rather sharp, in a white shirt with little topaz cufflinks, and a black fitted waistcoat. His trousers had been recently pressed and his tie was strung loose around his neck.

"Okay, tell us first why you're dressed like that." Dimmock gestured with his head towards the man's ensemble. "Not many people who work in warehouses dress in formal."

"No, I… I was trying it on. Then you brought me in."

"Trying it on for _what?_" Hunt took out a packet of cigarettes and slipped one into his mouth. His moustache was illuminated a deep red from the flame of his lighter, giving him a sort of evil glow.

"Formal Ball. It's for the worker's and their other halves."

"And I assume you have an 'other half' then?" Dimmock passed an ashtray to Hunt, who was glaring at Hugh like any bad cop would.

Hugh's eyes dropped and he pursed his lips (which looked slightly raw red against his pale skin.) It took a good twenty seconds before he answered, with a very quiet, very meek, "yes."

Sherlock smirked on the other side of the room. "He's not your murderer, Lestrade. Look at him."

Lestrade frowned, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Maybe. But he might be able to tell us where James Mayfair is… Oh good lord…" The DI groaned and looked at Hunt, who stood up rather dramatically.

"Mr. Bones, I don't care for this 'Formal Ball' bullshit. Cut to the chase and tell us where your little friend is." He slammed his hands down on the table, the cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. He inhaled, and sent a puff of smoke at Hugh, who coughed and shook his head.

"I don't know! James…" He shook his head. "I don't know."

"Sit down, Dave." Dimmock touched the Sergeant's arm and gave him a stern look. "Mr. Bones… We know he murdered those three women." Hunt sat down with a grunt and let Dimmock continue. "Are you or are you not involved?"

"No."

"But weren't you 'sick' on the same days as James?"

"No!"

"Oh, so you were with him when he murdered the women?"

"No!" Hugh was getting more defensive now, and he had the edge of the table gripped in his hands.

"Tell us where James Mayfair is!"

"_No!" _Realising his mistake, the blonde man slumped back, looking stricken. "I mean-"

"You do know." Hunt growled, stubbing out his cigarette. "You little bastard!" He stood up and reached for Hugh by the lapels of his waistcoat, lifting him off the seat."

Lestrade opened the door and burst in, his face a twist of anger and displeasure. "Sergeant Hunt!" He roared, slamming his fist down on the table. "Leave. _Now_."

Hunt hissed in Hugh's face and dropped him, kicking the plastic chair out of his way and stomping out with a string of curse words. The poor sod had a vein throbbing at the base of his neck.

Sherlock quietly slipped inside and leaned against the wall, watching the fireworks die down. His mouth curled up at the edges in an attempt to hide a smirk. Dimmock caught his eye and stood up, going over to stand before him.

"I hope you can get around him, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock smiled. "I will."

"You already know more than we do, am I right?"

"Quite so." Sherlock gestured with his head to where Hunt had stormed out. "Make sure he gets some strong tea and sits down a while. And tell him his daughter won't be marrying the butcher boy, so he can stop worrying."

Dimmock shook his head with a sigh, but left anyway, muttering a 'will do' and trailing after the Sergeant. Sherlock looked back at Lestrade who was talking quietly to Hugh. The young man was whiter than a sheet and he looked scared out of his wits.

"Coffee please, Lestrade. Black, two sugars." Sherlock strode over and sat himself down on the plastic chair, folding one leg over the other. The DI gave him a weary look, but seeing as Sherlock knew what he was doing almost all of the time, he had no choice but to trust him.

He left and closed the door quietly behind him. Sherlock reached over and turned off the camera. "Pointless thing, really." He placed it on the floor and wiped some cigarette ash from the table. Hugh looked up at him from under his blonde fringe, eyes wide.

"Who are you? I don't know where he is, I swear."

"Oh, I know that. But you do know what he's _doing_, don't you? When he takes a 'sick day'. He doesn't spend it at home…" The sudden shift in Hugh's position made Sherlock smirk. "Name's Sherlock Holmes. Call me Sherlock."

"Sherlock…" Hugh sounded thoughtful. "How come you believe me over the other cops?"

"I'm not a cop." Sherlock sighed and sat back. "You love her, don't you? Stella."

Hugh coloured lightly and cleared his throat. "What are you talking about?"

"Stella Mayfair."

"I don't love her." He bit his lip. "I despise her. I am infatuated completely, but I despise her."

"Yet you continue your affair with her? When James is away, Hugh will play?" Sherlock smirked and shook his head. "If it's not true, why do you blush?"

"I'm not- Look, Stella and I are over. Have been for over a month." At this Sherlock frowned. "James changed. He became… violent. Or so Stella said. I went over there and gave her some comfort."

"And then one thing led to another, right?"

Hugh nodded. "But it was over before it really started. Honest." The held eye contact – firm and true – made Sherlock frown again.

"This ball…" He said, changing subject after a few seconds. "Tell me about it."

"There's not much to tell, really. It's just a Ball for the workers and their partners."

"But you don't have a partner… Do you?" Hugh shook his head.

"No."

"Then why dress up?"

"Well," He snorted. "I assumed you had that one figured out already."

"Stella." Sherlock said. "Tell me this, Hugh, why did you and James take the same days off? If you didn't go around to Stella Mayfair's house then where did you go?"

Hugh coloured an even deeper shade of red and his eyes dropped to his feet. The fluorescent light over their heads flickered. "I went shopping…" His voice dropped to a mutter. "For a suit…"

"Yet you have no partner to go with?"

"I was hoping to find Stella that night and convince her to be with me." Sherlock had to refrain from rolling his eyes at Hugh; he was so innocent, and so desperate. He sighed and sat forward.

The door clicked open and Lestrade came in with two cups of coffee; one for Sherlock and another for Hugh, who took it gratefully. The DI shared a look with Sherlock before speaking.

"Everything going okay?"

"Fine." Sherlock held his eyes, flicking them to the door once as a gesture he should go. With a nod, Lestrade went back to the other side of the room.

"Okay Hugh, you knew what James was doing, correct?"

"Yeah."

"Because you're his best mate, and he tells you everything, correct?" Hugh nodded and took a sip from his coffee. "So why didn't you tell anyone?"

"Because, like I said, James is violent."

"And Stella?"

"…What about her?" Hugh narrowed his eyes and set his cup down a little too hard. "She's another one of his victims."

"Is she?"

"What do you mean 'is she'? Of course she is!"

"Do you have proof?" Sherlock whirled his coffee around the cup down and knocked it back. Hugh was silent, his mouth slightly parted. "Thought not. You shouldn't believe everything people say to you, Hugh. Even Stella."

"But…"

"But what? But Stella is so mild? Stella is so fair and beautiful and vulnerable?" Hugh shook his head.

"Stop it."

"I'm not doing anything." Sherlock stood up and stepped away. "Look, Hugh, don't judge the book by its cover. You should heed the same warning with Stella." Sherlock began to slowly walk away, and Hugh stood up. His chair scraped on the floor and there was a wild look about his eyes.

"Wait… Wait." Sherlock spun on his heels, his expression questioning.

"What are you telling me?"

"I'm telling you looks can be deceiving. Stella is an actress yes?"

"Yes. Sort of. Stage actress." Hugh sighed. "Looks beautiful under that light…" He shook his head. "Mr. Holme- Sherlock… This ball. James will be there. Stella too."

Sherlock smirked. "I know. So will I." With a grin he strode out.

* * *

><p>Sherlock looked at himself in the full length mirror from the hips down. He had his trouser legs rolled up past his knees, exposing a pair of long, pale calves. His attention, however, was not focused on said calves (which were beautiful really, but they needed a wax if this was going to work). Instead his silver-blue eyes were staring at his feet, which were sporting a pair of black patent high-heels. He took a wobbly step backward, then another, and then pivoted (almost) smoothly to face away from the mirror.<p>

Buying the shoes had been one of the strangest things Sherlock had ever done, at least in terms about how he felt while doing it. He had small feet for his height, but it had taken three shops before he'd found ones he liked that they also had in his size. He had claimed they were for his girlfriend and had gone off with them.

He wasn't all that fond of them in terms of _wearing_ them. They were a bit too small and they pinched his toes. There was no arch support at all and no cushioning under the balls of his feet. The heels were thin enough that they would make good chopsticks should Sherlock be so inclined. But even Sherlock had to admit that they looked _fabulous_. He could certainly see the logic behind wearing them.

He looked back at the mirror over his shoulder, trying a couple different ways of holding his hips to take some of the pressure off his feet. Standing just _so_, with one hip cocked lightly to the side, actually gave him the illusion of curves. "Fascinating..."

"Sherlock, there wasn't any of that jam you liked at the shops, but I got something else that should be... What the _hell_ are you doing?" Sherlock laughed; he really couldn't help it. Considering the last time that sentence had been uttered in the flat Sherlock had been putting holes in the wall... "No, really, Sherlock! What the _hell_are you doing prancing about in _heels_?"

"It's for-"

"A case, yes of course it's for a case!" John put the shopping on the table and very pointedly didn't look at Sherlock. "It's always for a case! Just once I'd like to..." John trailed off into sullen muttering and started putting the shopping away. Sherlock stood in front of the mirror for another long minute before walking (and clicking) into the kitchen. John was still muttering under his breath as Sherlock came up behind him and wrapped his arms around John's waist.

"Is it really that bad? I mean, do they look terrible on me?"

"Well, no that's not what I meant." John stopped moving, a box of tea in one hand and a bag of dried pasta in the other. "They're very nice, it was just a shock to see _you_ prancing around the flat in high heels!"

"I wasn't prancing. I was practising."

John turned to stare at him over his shoulder. "Practising? What the hell do you need to practise walking in heels for?"

"It's for a case..."

"Right..."

"There's also a dress involved..."

"Right..."

"And dancing."

"Uh-huh."

"You don't get it, do you?"

"No, I'm drawing a complete blank here."

"The ball that Stella Mayfair and her husband are attending? I did tell you about that, didn't I?"

"Yes, you did. You also mentioned we would be going and... Oh, Sherlock!" John covered his face with a hand, everything apparently sinking in all at once. "You're not _serious_ about this?"

"Of course I'm serious! You would look frankly ridiculous in a dress... No, please don't take that the wrong way. I mean you're not nearly feminine enough to pull something like this off!"

"Sherlock, you're wearing trousers and high heels. You're not feminine enough to pull _that_ off either."

Sherlock blinked at him, then pulled away to dart into the living room. He'd entirely forgotten about the white box wrapped in red ribbon on the couch. John, much against his better judgement, followed after him. Sherlock tossed the top of the box onto the far side of the couch and pulled the dress out. John went a little bug-eyed when Sherlock held it out at arm's length.

"It's Molly's, actually. Too long on her, but considering the height difference and the fact that her waist is only as big around as mine... Are you alright, John?"

"Yes, yes, I'm fine."

"Oh, good. Now, as I was saying. Considering the height difference between us and considering her waist is only as big around as mine... I'd say it'll fit alright. Molly and Sarah have agreed to do my hair and makeup, and... John, you've got a queer look on your face."

Sherlock was so caught up in his plans that he hardly noticed the reason for the queer look on John's face. The thought of Sherlock in a dress had never really occurred to him, but the sudden semi-vision of Sherlock in that slinky black number was a bit too much. He felt behind him for a chair and fell into it, his feet kicking out in front of him.

"John, are you sure you're alright? If this is all too much for you I suppose Lestrade could take me, though I don't think you or Mycroft would approve..."

John let out a strangled noise at the idea of Lestrade taking a dressed-up (literally) Sherlock to a black-tie affair. True, he wasn't entirely reconciled to the idea, but he'd rather go himself than have the DI do it for him. "No, no, I'll go. I just... I expected we'd each be taking a date!"

Sherlock lowered the dress slightly, the black silk pooling slightly on the floor. "We are, in a way. You're taking me and I'm accompanying you."

"That's not really what I meant, Sherlock..."

"Ah, you supposed we would both be taking a lady, then... I could take Molly, perhaps, and you could take Sarah?"

"Something like that, yeah."

"Well, for all intents and appearances you _will_ be taking a lady..." He started folding the dress, finally settling it back in its white box. "There'll be a little work behind it but I think we can do it."

John shook his head, still not quite believing what he was hearing. Sherlock in a dress. By the looks of it, a slinky black dress, too. This was all turning out to be quite odd. He looked up again as Sherlock sat down on the couch and slipped off the heels. When Sherlock wasn't standing in them, the shoes looked much more normal; plain black patent pumps with thin stiletto heels. Nothing extraordinary.

"Remind me again when this ball is?"

"Oh, it's not till next week. You've got lots of time yet to get accustomed to the whole idea before we actually have to go to this ball..."

John groaned and let his eyes close. It was going to be quite a week.


End file.
